Through the Years
by ecb327
Summary: A montage of AU Johnlock moments, from the moment they meet in a playground as infants to the moment they put a ring on it. Short vignettes every five years or so. Expect Johnlock angst, drama, and fluff.
1. Her Estranged Infant

**Sherlock - 1; John - 3**

A baby boy with jet black hair eyed the sandbox critically. His mother, perched anxiously on the edge of a splintered picnic bench, waited to see if he would play, or if he would shun it, just as he had already shunned the tire swings and teeter-totter.

"Is he yours?" asked a woman, sitting down beside her. She had warm cinnamon eyes and chestnut hair flecked with bits of gray. A boy bounced on her hip, with a thumb in his mouth and a round, questioning gaze.

"He is," his mother confirmed. She gave a poorly-suppressed sigh, ran a hand through her own dark locks. "He's a... well, he's an interesting one."

The other woman smiled and handed her son a graham cracker, which he sucked on eagerly. "How old is he?"

"Fourteen months. Yours?"

"How old are you, Johnny?" his mother cooed. Her son nestled his face into her neck, giggling shyly. "Tell the nice lady how old you are."

"Free," the boy said.

"He's three. I'm Carolyn, by the way. Carolyn Watson." She paused expectantly.

"Violet Holmes. That's Sherlock."

Both mothers looked at him. He was still scrutinizing the sand, then leaned down awkwardly and brushed his index finger across a footprint. Brow furrowed, almost as if he was thinking hard – but infants don't think hard, do they?

"He doesn't really talk," Violet explained. "He doesn't really relate to anyone, in fact. It's... difficult."

Carolyn laid a gentle hand over Violet's. "Johnny, why don't you go play with Sherlock?"

John's face lit up – why he would be excited at the prospect of interacting with a clearly distant child was entirely beyond Violet – and he toddled obligingly over to join the other boy who, predictably, did not so much as stir to indicate that someone outside of himself did indeed exist.

The two women distracted themselves for the next five minutes, making small talk about this and that. John had a sister, Harriet, who was currently in kindergarten; Sherlock's older brother of seven years, Mycroft, was acting out.

"No," John said suddenly. Carolyn and Violet looked up, Violet tensing: what had Sherlock done this time?

To both women's surprise, John was pointing at a hill of red ants, to which Sherlock had been hovering dangerously near.

"No," John repeated.

Sherlock squinted at him, acknowledging the three-year-old's presence for the first time. He took a wobbly step towards the pile, but John grabbed at his hand, tugging him safely out of the way. Carolyn moved to stop him - "John, no, don't touch him, honey" - but Violet, with a sharp intake of breath, pulled her back.

"That's bad," John was saying, shaking his head emphatically. He carefully walked around the hazard and plopped himself down at the center of the box, reaching for a toy truck. "Play with me."

Sherlock stared at him with penetrating verdigris eyes.

"He's not going to do it," murmured Violet. "He won't hurt him, but he won't - he won't do it."

"Just wait," Carolyn said firmly.

Sherlock mumbled something. John tilted his head: _what did you say?_ "...lock." His face was creased, an indication of stress, of confusion.

"He's introducing himself," marveled Violet.

"Johnny, that's Sherlock."

"Sherly," said John, holding the name carefully in his mouth as though it was liable to disappear.

Violet laughed. "Sher_lock_," she corrected him.

"Sherly," repeated John, beaming at the one-year-old.

Sherlock's face smoothed back out.

"Come play," said John. "Play with me." He motioned to a plastic dinosaur.

"Sherlock never plays," said Violet, expecting the telltale stiffening of her son's back, the blank glare, the inevitable walk-off. She watched the older boy wave his toys about, looking a bit mad even to her. She braced herself as she had ever since the procession of failed daycares, parent groups, and family road trips that Sherlock had already managed to disrupt. She waited, she anticipated, she prepared for the worst.

And then her estranged infant made his way over to John, pursed his lips into a smile – one of the very few she'd ever seen on him – and played.


	2. Birthday Revelations

**Sherlock - 5 (6); John - 7**

"It's a birthday party," Violet explained.

"I don't like the hat." Sherlock pulled at the elastic, wincing. "It's uncomfortable."

"Then don't wear it, you git," Mycroft snapped, whizzing past on a pair of rollerblades and whipping it off Sherlock's head. Ever since he'd entered teenhood he'd been particularly obnoxious.

Sherlock crossed his arms. "Nobody's going to come," he declared.

"I'm sure they will. We sent so many invitations."

"No one likes him because he's freaky," Mycroft said, spinning round the kitchen island and snatching an apple. "He knows stuff about people he shouldn't know, and he doesn't care that it scares them."

Violet sighed. "Don't do that in the house, please. Take them outside, and see where Dad's gotten off to with the cake." Rolling his eyes, her eldest obeyed.

"Mum?" Sherlock kicked his heels against the wall. He was unusually tall, and carried himself unusually well, for his age. "I don't think anybody's going to come."

"Sh, sweet boy. I'm sure they will."

"No."

She busied herself with something, anything, to take her mind off of the fact that try as she might, her son did not have – nor was he remotely interested in making – any friends.

"You want to know why?"

"Why what?"

"Why I know they won't come."

"Why's that?"

"Because when you handed the card to Vanessa, she wrinkled her nose."

"I'm sure she didn't mean anything –"

"When you made Mrs. Howard give some to Jacob and his friends, they bit their lips and looked at each other. They were mocking me," he stated calmly.

"Oh, darling –"

"And the one you made me give to Sam, I found it in the rubbish bin after recess."

"Sherlock, honey, they're just –"

Sherlock got off his stool, paced back and forth. Such a disconcerting behavior for someone of his age. "They're not going to come, Mummy. I don't mind. I don't like any of them."

"You must have _some_ friends!"

He shook his head. "I don't."

The doorbell rang. "Ah! Here we are." She moved to answer, but before she'd gone three steps, Sherlock said flatly,

"It's John Watson. He always walks funny, like he's bouncing on something, and his mum's carrying her purse with all the jingly keychains."

He was, of course, correct. "Carolyn," she said in surprise. "I thought you were out of town!"

"We left a bit early, didn't want to miss Sherlock's birthday," Carolyn replied. "Harry, John, say hello to Mrs. Holmes."

Harry, looking grumpy in a baggy t-shirt and jeans, waved morosely. John asked immediately, "Where is he?"

"He's in the kitchen, darling," said Violet. "He didn't think anyone would come," she informed Carolyn in an undertone as John skipped off. "You know he's not the most popular kid in the grade."

"John likes him," Harry piped up. "I don't know why."

"Harriet Watson!" admonished Carolyn. "Of course we all like him! He's a delight."

"He makes guesses that aren't guesses," Harry said. "He's weird."

"I'm so sorry, Violet, I really –"

Violet held up a hand. "It's fine. We're all a little perplexed by Sherlock."

They seated themselves in the living room, so as to give the boys some space. Harry played on her GameBoy.

"Mum, look what John got me!" Sherlock bounded over, more animated than she'd ever seen him. "It's a detective kit!" He brandished it about, John lurking sheepishly beside him.

"We're so glad you like it," Carolyn said.

"There's nothing dangerous in there, right?" whispered Violet when show and tell was over and the children went outside to catch bugs.

Carolyn winked. "Don't worry. We removed the forceps."

–––––

"Nobody else is coming," Sherlock said.

"I'm sorry." John dragged his toe through the dirt, drawing a jagged line.

"It's alright. I don't care." Sherlock hung off a rope tied to his favorite tree in the backyard, which had been Mycroft's birthday present to him. He was happiest like this: swinging, climbing, free. And John being there wasn't so bad, either.

"I came, though," John said, giving a hopeful smile.

"Will you come next year?" asked Sherlock, adjusting his grip. He held himself in place for a moment, looking down at his friend's upturned face. "You don't always have to bring a present."

"It's tradition. The present."

"Stupid tradition." Sherlock climbed further up, fitting his legs around a large knot in the trunk.

John giggled. "I know."

They were silent, John pulling grass and collecting sticks in the shade and Sherlock getting higher and higher, until he reached the top of the branch and stopped. He could see the entire town from here. Liberating. For a moment, it was as if he was all the way in the clouds. Perhaps people would understand him there. Sometimes the ground seemed ever so tiresome. Drab authority figures, irrational rules, and the shocked expressions whenever he shared an obvious observation were getting very dull. At least John was there, on the ground. Wrapping one arm firmly around the tree, he gazed down at the yard. "John?" he called.

"Yes?"

"Will you come next year?" he repeated. "You never answered me."

John stood up, shaded his eyes with a hand. "Next year, and the next, and the next, and even more," he replied with gusto.

Sherlock mulled this over. That was a lot of years. He shared this perception with John, who responded practically,

"I'll be alive for a lot of years yet, Sherly."

"I think the life expectancy is –"

"It doesn't matter," said John, sitting back down, cross-legged. "I'll come every year."

Sherlock paused. He felt vulnerable, an uncomfortable sensation for such a self-sufficient boy. The word he wanted to utter sat on the tip of his tongue. Precarious. He did not like precarious. "Watch out," he said instead. "I'm coming down."

He descended, and imagined himself asking, _Promise?_

John would do that little thing, the little twitchy thing with the corner of his mouth that he did when he handed Sherlock his present, and say, simply, _Yes_.

"Hi," John said cheerfully when Sherlock alighted. "I wrote 'happy birthday' for you in the dirt, see?" He pointed. "There's even a birthday cake."

"I hate birthdays," Sherlock said stubbornly. "They're pointless."

John shrugged. "I know."

Hm. John was strange; Sherlock's obstinacy never once unnerved him, nor did his abnormal intelligence. He accepted whatever odd thing came out of the younger boy's mouth, and did not indicate fear or intimidation when faced with recalcitrance. After this consideration, Sherlock could only think to say, "Oh."

"I like birthdays," John announced.

Sherlock frowned, thought, looked over at his friend. A smile snaked its way, unbidden, across his lips. "Me too," he found himself saying. "I like birthdays too."

"Cool," said John.

And Sherlock said, simply, "Yes."


	3. Schoolyard (Mis)adventures

**Sherlock – 10; John – 12**

"Hi."

Sherlock glanced up, squinting through the sunlight, and pushed a stray lock of hair off his forehead. "Hi," he said shortly.

"May I?" John gestured to the bench.

"Fine."

The older boy took a seat, swung his legs back and forth a bit. His trainers were flecked with grass and mud. "I heard," he said quietly.

"Shocking."

"Don't be a smart-arse."

The swear would shock any other ten-year-old; Sherlock, not easily caught off guard, remained stoic, though his back stiffened imperceptibly. Silence – one that tended to make others uncomfortable, but which John merely accepted – stretched between them.

"I don't think you're a freak," said John, nearly a minute and a half later. Tentatively, he nudged Sherlock's knee with his own, a reassuring gesture that did not register. It was fine, though. He hadn't expected a reaction. The fact that he'd not been rejected or shied away from was testament to their relationship enough. Sherlock was indifferent to most people; he was marginally less so to John, always had been.

"No, I'm a high functioning sociopath," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. "I've seen the diagnosis. Mum cried when she found out. Mycroft laughed."

"Sod Mycroft, "John muttered under his breath. He had been beyond relieved to see the reigning school bully go off to uni.

A small, vaguely grateful smile flashed across Sherlock's face, inexplicably filling John's chest with warmth. Getting a smile – any expression other than a knitted forehead, really – out of the oddball was enormously gratifying.

"I think you're cool," John continued.

Sherlock frowned. "The temperature is unusually warm, for May, so unless you've severely miscalculated –"

"I don't mean weather-wise," John cut in exasperatedly. "I mean I think you're okay. You're a neat guy."

Sherlock seemed to comprehend this, until he stated, "I am quite fastidious."

John rubbed at his temples. He almost regretted joining the boy, until he looked at him again. Sherlock was playing with his hands, arranging his slender fingers into a steeple, perching his chin upon it. Lost. Excluded. Perhaps he didn't mind, but John did. They weren't exactly _friends_; he knew the story of how the two of them met at the park that one day and how he was the first little kid Sherlock hadn't blatantly ignored. How there had been birthday parties, along the way. That didn't make them friends. They were, as far as he could tell, mere acquaintances.

Phil, a particularly nasty fifth grader with curly brown hair and narrowed hazel eyes, came running by with a football. He hurled it at the two boys gleefully. John ducked; Sherlock, still engulfed in his own world, flinched as it hit him squarely in the head.

"Morons!" John yelled angrily. "Leave him alone!"

"What're you doing, hanging out with a freak like that?" sneered a sixth-grader called Chris.

"Lost your marbles, have you, Watson?" Phil chimed in.

"Go away," said a girl who'd been glowering at them from the swings and now stalked over. She had two chestnut plaits that swung indignantly back and forth as she puffed up her chest, hands on hips. Molly Hooper, that was her name. John went to Sunday school with her elder brother. If he remembered correctly, she was a year behind Sherlock.

"Oooh, are you going to make us?" Phil snickered.

She was a tiny slip of a thing, but even they cowered slightly under her ferocious glare. "Leave Sherlock alone," she repeated.

"Or what?"

"Or I'll punch you."

Chris snorted. "I'd like to see that."

Molly sighed, as if they were dreadfully tiresome and she had much better things to do. "Go, or I'll report you," she said, pointing insistently towards the school. "I don't think your mums and dads would be pleased to hear you got written up. Get lost, you idiots."

It worked. They shot each other calculating looks, as if debating whether or not this was worth it anymore, and came to the conclusion that it was best to avoid a tantrum. John's eyes widened in amazement.

"Thanks," he said. He waited for Sherlock to acknowledge the favor, but the boy was staring at the ground.

"No problem," said Molly, sitting down beside him and leaning forward. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"

He cocked an eyebrow. "Seventy-six percent of that ball was deflated, and based on the displacement of Philip's wind-up, the force applied was miniscule, regardless of air resistance. Had the distance been greater, I barely would have suffered a –"

"He's fine," John said. Molly nodded. Her class was called back inside, and she hopped up.

"I like you," she said to Sherlock. "Even if they think you're a... well, you know."

Sherlock grunted in response. Unfazed – John was even more impressed – she gave a little wave and skipped off.

"She was very kind," Sherlock said the moment she left. "She did not have to stand up for me, yet she chose to. I found her compulsion to get involved marginally flattering."

"You couldn't have said all that to her while she was here?"

Sherlock shot him a blank look. "No, why would I have?"

"Um, maybe because it would've been nice if you'd thanked her?"

"She knew what she was doing. The mere fact that her words successfully deterred those two imbeciles was gratifying in itself. Why should she seek additional reassurance?"

John sighed. Why he cared about this strange boy was beyond him. But he did. "Listen," he said. "Do you want to come over for dinner tonight?"

"You mean like, be friends?"

The frankness of this question startled John, and he was surprisingly pleased to find that Sherlock did harbor some desire to be more than acquaintances after all. "We _are_ friends."

"Oh." Sherlock turned this over in his mind for a solid thirty seconds. Then, "Yeah, alright."

"You'll come over?"

Sherlock stood up and started walking away, cutting a straight path across the playground, silhouette pristinely contoured– angles and clean lines – save for his dark ringlets.

"Sherlock? You'll come over?"

Still with his back to John, the ten-year-old said, with his sometimes infuriating _isn't-it-obvious-yes-of-course-don't-be-daft_ intonation, "Yup." He always did that, enunciated the "p", making a popping sound at the tail end of the syllable.

John beamed.


	4. Eyeballs and Explanations

This chapter is slightly angst-ridden, but pretty tame in my opinion. Fluff abounds.

P.S. The word Sherlock almost says, starting with a "p", is, of course, the age-old question - "Promise?"

**Sherlock - 15; John - 17**

"Don't move," hissed John. "I'll get you out of here."

Sherlock was crouched beneath the porch, clutching a human (half-dissected) eyeball. From inside the house came sounds of raucous laughter and a strong whiff of cheap liquor. He hadn't known about the party.

John snuck around the corner. Harry's girlfriend was lounged against her car, arms crossed. Although she was, by extension, supposed to tolerate Sherlock, the sight of him carrying around that _thing_ would be unlikely to draw much mercy. A scrawny sophomore should not be hanging around at senior gatherings. Insignificant as this ridiculous social limitation was, Sherlock was to understand from John's anxious demeanor – twitching lips, jumpiness, treading on the balls of his feet – that it held fast and strong.

Really, all he wanted was someone else's advice. His parents were no use; they only made a shocked noise in the back of their throat and sent him to his room. He'd been grounded the last time he left a ziploc bag of decaying wisdom teeth in the cereal cupboard. But John had knowledge, John wanted to be a doctor, John always answered his texts right away. When he hadn't responded, Sherlock's impatience and concern mounted.

He waited fifteen and a half minutes before jumping into action. John was always so easy to track. Unfortunately, this meant that he could only assume the context of John's location, which sometimes led to situations like this.

"John?" Sherlock asked in surprise as the older guy slid in beside him. "Are we in danger?"

John pressed his lips together and said bitterly, "My reputation is."

"Oh, so your eagerness to get rid of me stems from self-interest."

John contemplated this, then concurred, "Yeah, basically."

Sherlock shrugged. "Alright. Then I really must sneak off without being seen."

John felt distinctly guilty. Honesty was particularly uncomfortable with his friend: he inevitably ended up feeling like a horrible person, which was only exacerbated by Sherlock's calm acceptance of his shortcomings. _The fact of the matter,_ the black-haired lad once said, _is that people are arrogant and egotistic. Contrary to popular belief (amongst happy-go-lucky optimists, at least), we are not all naturally inclined to put others' needs before ours. Why set the unrealistic expectation that any one person might be the exception to this basic element of life? Pass the beaker by your right elbow, please._ Christ.

Sherlock was chattering now, and John forced himself back to reality, or else he'd get lost in memories, a maddeningly common occurrence nowadays. Seeing the oddball less frequently was not doing him any favors.

"Sorry, can you repeat what you were saying?" he asked, shaking himself out of distraction.

"Harry's in the front, isn't she? There are people drinking in the back, by the jacuzzi. If I climb over the railing, the neighbor's dog will bark – he is partial to peanut butter on celery, neither of which I've brought with me – thus arousing suspicion and turning attention on me and the party, which entails a great deal of underage drinking and otherwise dubious hijinks. Nobody looks favorably upon the whistleblower."

"This is true."

"Hm." Sherlock thought for a moment. "There's a fence on the other side, correct?"

"Yeah."

"I could jump it easily, I just need to get from here to that side of the house. I predict that in approximately two minutes, the couple engaging in... sexual undertakings." He coughed, flushed, spoke rapidly. "They'll move to the adjacent edge, given the position of the girl's – oh. Well. They'll move, at any rate." He retreated back, folding his legs elegantly, arms wrapped around knees, and leaned slightly into John's side.

John suppressed a smile, fondness blooming in his chest, a brand of affection that only Sherlock Holmes could elicit. The rest of his body didn't feel so hot. His stomach felt queasy, and he hadn't even drunk anything. Half a beer, at most. He wasn't sure why he associated with these blokes; partying was hardly an enjoyable pastime for him. Peer pressure, maybe. Harry wanted him to, and she'd been so difficult with their mum lately that he felt responsible for catering to her wishes in the hopes that the happier she was, the less she'd act out. She asked him to attend these dos, so he did. He did have friends, but they weren't much fun once they'd done a couple shots.

"I don't have friends," Sherlock said, as if reading his mind.

"You have me," John pointed out, accustomed by now to unanticipated, random shifts in conversation.

Sherlock's lips pursed, as if around the letter "p", but he said nothing. Did he move infinitesimally closer, or was John imagining things? "Good," the fifteen-year-old said finally.

"We're friends, Sherly."

Sherlock gave a mollified, vague smile of acknowledgement. No one, absolutely _no one_, save for John, was permitted to utter this nickname. But Sherlock liked how it sounded in John's mild timbre, so he never protested.

They sat side by side, thighs pressed together, until, right on cue, the aggressively demonstrative couple switched locations.

"All clear," said Sherlock crisply. "Let's go." He thought twice, faltered. "I presume you're staying?"

"I'll come with you, make sure you get there okay, then return."

Sherlock frowned. "Won't your friends miss you?"

"No, it's fine." They were probably too intoxicated at this point to notice.

"We'd better hurry, at any rate. You don't want to be seen with me."

This was half-true. John wanted to be with Sherlock, but he could neither afford nor handle the inevitable harassment that would result from such a sighting. He was an especially controlled individual; this, however, did not stop him from wanting to punch the morons who mocked Sherlock whenever they hung out.

"This is an impressively high barrier. Unprecedented. Boost me up?"

John braced himself, kneeling down in the grass, and pushed Sherlock up over the fence. The thin young man dropped lightly to the ground, barely making a sound.

"Thanks," he called, and a sparkling green-turquoise eye peered through a crack in the wood.

"No problem," John replied, feeling suddenly lonely. "Hold on, I'm coming."

"What? You ought to return. I don't wish to cast a pall over your social life."

John imagined Sherlock sitting alone in the dirt, and a rush of protectiveness overcame him. He launched himself over the barrier in one reasonably graceful motion, landing beside his friend.

"Oh. Hello." Sherlock appeared confused.

John was a little confused as well. It did not help when he found himself blurting out, "You know I want you to stay."

Sherlock's eyebrow raised. "Excuse me?"

"No, I mean, not here. But just – it wasn't in self-interest. Or, I suppose you could say it was. Because I didn't – I care about you, and I didn't want you to get hurt. You know." He took a deep breath, did not dare to look the younger chap in the eye.

Sherlock was gazing at him, saying nothing.

"That's getting a little creepy," John said, after several beats in which Sherlock only stared at him, hands limply by his sides. Finally, with a little shake of his head, he said,

"No one's ever indicated that before. I was, I must admit, considerably taken aback. I am honored, John Hamish Watson, to be your friend."

"No prob – wait, how do you know my middle name?"

Sherlock smirked slightly, then got off the ground, brushing soil from his trousers. A moment of thought later, he extended a hand to John, who met him halfway. Sherlock's slim fingers wrapped warmly around his friend's, a strangely gentle and comforting grasp. They remained in a quasi-handshake, gripping each other awkwardly, until John coughed and slid his hand out, trying to ignore the way Sherlock's fumbled, entwining with his for a split second.

"Thanks," John said quietly.

But Sherlock was already halfway down the street, his back to John, which, it seemed, happened all too often. In his mind, the conversation was over.

No bloody way. John was bound and determined to prove his loyalty. He had to sprint to catch up, grabbed Sherlock's wrist to stop him. His friend halted abruptly, immediately responsive to the touch.

"Hello," he said, blinking.

"What, you're just going to leave without me?"

"That was the general idea, yes. I didn't think you'd be too keen on them seeing you with me."

John glanced back at the house. "Nobody's looking."

"Oh?"

"I just wanted to say, also, that you're – I'm glad we're friends, too."

Sherlock gave him the same look, emotion filling his stunning eyes, the most John had ever seen. Feelings. Huh.

"Well, goodnight, then. I assume you can find your way home."

Sherlock nodded.

"Bye." On a whim, John leaned forward and wrapped his arms around the younger – but much taller – lad. Sherlock stiffened, then relaxed and pulled John closer. When he spoke, the vibrations echoed through John's chest, as if they were one entity.

"You never did explain the eyeball thing."

"Yes, well, I was a bit distracted."

"I see," Sherlock murmured into John's hair. So this was bliss. "Are you distracted now?"

John paused, reveling in the warmth of Sherlock's embrace, pulse quickening. He tilted his face upwards. "Little bit, yeah," he said, and kissed him.

It was a chaste kiss, nothing much more than a peck. Sherlock's hand came up to cup his neck briefly, stroke an uncertain finger across the contour of his cheek. His mouth was warm, slightly chapped, the skin inside moist and pink as it pressed briefly against John's. "I'll ask you about it later," Sherlock whispered.

John, dizzied by the sensation of Sherlock's lips rubbing against his, pulled away for a breath. "I'll explain."

Sherlock tugged him back. "Not now." He leaned in slowly, head tilting to the left, that breath-taking intensity in his gaze.

They exchanged another kiss, this one leaving John even more breathless than the last, and suddenly Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, his arms dropped stiffly to his sides, and he walked off. Just like that. Gone. Striding down the empty street, illuminated by dull golden street lamps, peculiar wool coat flaring out behind him.

_Sherlock_.

"I'll tell you later," John said to the empty avenue. "I promise."


	5. Every Year

So I'm somewhat obsessed with the Star Trek movies (only exacerbated by the presence of Benedict Cumberbatch), and I've always likened Sherlock to Spock a bit in my mind. There was a particular moment that never fails to a. make me very emotional and b. remind me of Sherlock's difficulty with emotion. That, in conjunction with John Buchan's quote, _"__He disliked emotion, not because he felt lightly, but because he felt deeply,"_ evoked thoughts of Sherlock so much that I had to incorporate Spock's words into this chapter. I've bolded the parts taken directly from the quote, so obviously disclaimer: those sections are 100% not of my creation, but rather the brilliant work of Damon Lindelof, Alex Kurtzman & Bob Orci.

Please read, follow, favorite, and review (I adore reading your reviews)! I hope you enjoy this chapter.

**Sherlock - 19; John - 21**

"Sherlock," Carolyn said in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"John," Sherlock said. He looked a bit mad. "He's...?"

"In his room," replied Carolyn, bemused. "What's this all about, then?"

"Thank you," Sherlock said, and frantically pounded his way up the stairs.

"He just got back yesterday, he might still be asleep –" she called, but there was no response.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, feet set hip width apart, hands trembling slightly as he looked at John.

"Hi," John said huskily. His hair had grown a bit too long, stubble peppering his jawline.

"Don't do it," Sherlock said heatedly. He strode across the room – it was a rather shallow one, so this didn't take much effort – and plunged a hand under John's mattress, wriggling around until it closed around the smooth butt of a gun. "I'm taking this," he said firmly, though his nostrils flared, betraying his cool composure. He was frightened; this much was clear.

"Okay," said John quietly. Then, timidly, "I do hope you didn't have to leave anything important to rush over here for – well, this really wasn't necessary."

"It was quite necessary. You expressed symptoms indicative of depression, followed up by a blasé reference to offing yourself." Sherlock's brow knitted together. "Was I supposed to do something else?"

"I'm sorry," muttered John. "I didn't mean to... I'm sorry I bothered you."

Sherlock gaped. He could be so daft sometimes. "The fact that I responded shows that you did not, in fact, 'bother' me. If you had, I would not have even read that unexpected text message from you, much less felt compelled to take action."

"I'm sorry we haven't talked."

There it was. The elephant in the room. The only fight Sherlock had ever engaged in or remotely cared about, the beginning of what they both thought was the end.

—

_**Sherlock - 17; John - 19**_

_"How are you so unfeeling?" _

_"I'm afraid I can't read your tone when you're incensed as such." Sherlock pushed his lab glasses up on his head, meticulously zeroed the balance. "I'm not entirely clear on what unforgivable act I committed."_

_"Listen to me!"_

_"I have not, to my knowledge, done anything that would imply that I am not listening. I have ears, I am currently silent, and therefore my all signs point towards the fact that I have no option but to listen to this tirade. Please let me by so I can get the –"_

_"I don't care about the bloody formaldehyde!" John shouted. _

_"You needn't yell."_

_"Yeah, well, maybe I want to!"_

_Sherlock gave him a calculating glance. His face, tight and worried – _good, _thought John savagely, _he ought to be worried_ – was slightly paler than usual, and as he read John's anger he slowly took off his goggles, placing them carefully on the table. "I apologize for my error," he said. _

_"God, can't you ever talk about feelings like a normal bloke?"_

_Something injured crept into his gaze now, shooting a healthy dose of guilt into John's veins. The trouble with Sherlock was that often, the only way to get his attention and force him to realize the importance of the situation was to make radical, sometimes unkind, declarations. _

_"I'm sorry," John said quickly. _

_Sherlock pushed a hand through his hair and sighed. "I apologize. I understand that I am not the most – well, I'm not good at the 'feelings' component of life."_

_"You can say that again," John muttered. _

_"What do you want to talk about?" Sherlock stood expectantly, hands behind his back, feet splayed out. _

_"You know I'm going away."_

_A curt nod. _

_"So I reckoned maybe we could talk about what this..." He gestured vaguely to the kitchen area. "What this is."_

_"It's my house, John. Have you gone mad?"_

_John nearly kicked a wall in frustration. "I mean _us! _You and me, Sherlock! What are we?"_

_Sherlock frowned. "I'm afraid I don't catch your meaning, seeing as I presume it is not a literal response that you are seeking. You know our species identification and full names, so I really don't –"_

_John punted the side table next to Sherlock's favorite chair. "I can't deal with this right now. I've got to go see Harry off to treatment, collect my things, console Mum..." He looked at his friend hopelessly. "I thought this was... I guess I thought this meant something to you." He waited for something, anything, but the seventeen-year-old didn't budge. Well, there was his answer. He'd been a fool for thinking that Sherlock might actually care, that there might be some capacity for strong emotion unseen by anyone, that maybe he would be the exception. _

_But, as Sherlock said those years ago, "why set the unrealistic expectation that any one person might be the exception to this basic element of life?"_

_No exceptions would be made. For a long, absurdly euphoric stretch of time, he thought they had been, for himself. That he was special. Turned out he was wrong. Couldn't really act surprised, could he. _

_"Wait. John," Sherlock said, tugging the coat from his friend's hands. "Don't leave yet."_

_A giddying sensation passed through John's chest. Finally._

_Sherlock took a deep breath, faced him. "Can you explain the decomposed liver to me?"_

_John seized a plate from the countertop and hurled it across the room. It smashed into pieces on the floor. Sherlock flinched. "YOU – FUCKING – ARSEHOLE!" he screamed, throwing a cup and then a handful of cutlery. "I thought you actually cared!"_

_"Please stop tantruming." Sherlock's face had whitened; he was shaken. About time. _

_"I'm leaving. Tell your mum to post me and I'll pay to replace those." John had his foot out the door when Sherlock said,_

_"But I do care."_

_"_What?"

_"I figured the fact that I care about you was far too obvious for doubt, and I'm afraid I didn't consider the possibility that you were seeking reassurance. You are one of my very, very few friends, and for that I am grateful."_

_John didn't know how to respond. The lad had his head bent over a Bunsen burner now: conversation over. "Thanks," said John shortly. "I'm, uh, sorry."_

_"No worries."_

_"So you do care."_

_"Yes," he said. "As I care for my parents, and for Molly, and for, in a very unfortunate and ineffable way, my own brother."_

_So he was parent-zoned, brother-zoned. John had suspected as much. Ever since that kiss two years ago, things had been different. Sherlock suddenly became distant, which he always had been, just not around John. They rarely spoke aside from polite hellos in the hallways. Wait a minute. When had a girl entered the equation? "You like Molly."_

_Sherlock appeared baffled. "Naturally I do."_

_John wanted to kick himself now. He was a god damn _imbecile_, thinking that he meant something. Of _course_ Sherlock was straight, and of _course_ he liked the stunning, intelligent Molly Hooper. She was infinitely better than whiny, rundown John Watson. _

_"So, are we done?"_

_Rejection. Irrevocable, unalterable, pure rejection. He would walk out that door and never come back. _

_He'd done a bang-up job making a fool of himself, convincing himself that Sherlock truly cared, in that... way. _Oh, come on, we aren't in middle school.

_Fine. That Sherlock might be in love with him was a moronic supposition and he wished to god he had deciphered the answer earlier, before he'd wasted so much time pouring his heart out and fighting the urge to ask, to push, because all along he thought Sherlock simply wasn't ready to process and discuss his feelings and damned if John was going to force his friend out of his interpersonal comfort zone. And now it transpired that there had never been any feelings to process or discuss, not on Sherlock's end. _

_"John?"_

_"Yeah, done," John muttered, swallowing hard. This hurt. This hurt way more than it should. He could not look at Sherlock, so he ducked his head and made for the exit._

_"Have a good year," said Sherlock stiffly. _

_"Yeah," mumbled John. Then, in an unanticipated last rage, he spun around and bellowed, "YOU FUCKING UNFEELING SOD!"_

_Sherlock almost dropped the beaker he was holding. "Come again?"_

_John stamped his foot in frustration, pain clouding his judgment. "Someday," he hissed, stabbing a finger in Sherlock's direction, "you will understand what it feels like. You can't lead people on like that, you can't act like you've got feelings and then change your mind. You can't go on like this, not feeling anything. I lo – I cared about you. I still do."_

_"As do I," said Sherlock, bemused. "Why are you so agitated?"_

_"Because you fucking broke my heart, or don't you realize that? You made me think – I suppose I – oh." His shoulders slumped in defeat. "I guess it... it was partially... yes. It wasn't – I knew who you were, at that point. Always had. I should have known. This meant nothing to you. I thought that maybe, by some miracle of chance, I would be the exception to your – of not feeling. I shouldn't have –"_

_Sherlock was scrutinizing him, every muscle tensed, and a look of comprehension dawned on his face. What was it now? That he hated John's family, too? Bloody brilliant, that. But then he cut in, "__**You misunderstand.**__ It is true that I often choose not to feel anything." He licked his lips nervously. "But."_

_"Go on," John snapped. _

_"__**Anger, confusion, loneliness, fear. I have experienced those feelings before, multiplied exponentially**__ the night you – we kissed. I realized afterward that I was nothing more than a joke to you, knowing that you have never been attracted to a guy before, and that this was all a cruel joke. You had friends, past girlfriends, and I did not. You were – you _are – _hierarchically superior to me in that regard. And so I realized, and fought to accept, that our worlds are different. Much as I wanted to articulate my emotions at the time, they were too new and too intense to do so. By the time I was ready, you had moved on. We barely spoke."_

_John's heart was pounding. "That's because you wouldn't talk to me," he said hoarsely. _

_Sherlock shook his head. "You were always laughing with some arbitrary girl on your arm, or with football players or med interns or simply avoiding me."_

_"I'm so sorry."_

_"It's fine. My point is..." Sherlock's eyes found his, beautiful and haunting and full of boyish innocence and fear. He took a shuddery breath; this conversation necessitated an immense amount of effort. John was about to suggest that they stop, that Sherlock take a break, or something, when he concluded, "__**Such a feeling is something I choose never to experience again.**__ John, __**you mistake my choice not to feel as a reflection of my not caring. Well, I assure you, the truth is precisely the opposite.**__"_

_"I had no idea, you have to realize that."_

"_No matter." Sherlock sounded broken, and it was John's fault. He shouldn't have tested the limits like that, shouldn't have assumed the lack of reaction to be lack of sensitivity. "Goodbye, John."_

What? _"I'm not leaving."_

_Sherlock glanced at his watch. "You'll miss your train at this rate."_

_"Screw the train."_

"_I don't think it's very –" Sherlock pressed his fingertips together delicately, a gesture that made John feel as if he'd been punched in the gut. "Please leave," he finally said. "I think I'm a little too... just leave, John."_

"_I love –" The words caught in his throat as he saw Sherlock's cheekbones, stark against the dull gray of the kitchen walls, and his gleaming eyes, and his thin, oddly-shaped lips, and oh god _Sherlock...

"_We can part as friends."_

"_But I –"_

_Sherlock shrunk away from him, up against the sink, and shut his eyes. "I am not accustomed to admitting my emotions, or laying them so bare, and in your words, I can't deal with this right now."_

"_But it might make you feel better to know that I –"_

"_Leave." He whispered this syllable, a plea._

_John's heart was breaking. "Okay," he whispered, not daring to touch his friend. "Okay."_

—

"It's fine." Sherlock perched on the edge of the bed, careful not to let their legs touch. "I thought the most tactful move after that interaction would be to give you space."

The irony of Sherlock preaching tact momentarily caught John off guard. "I thought you didn't want anything to do with me."

"We've been busy, John. I hardly expected you to keep in touch after I, for lack of a better word, exploded on you."

John gave a short, rueful chuckle. "Because I've never done that."

"No, because that was _your_ job. I stepped out of line that night. Two unstable people in any type of relationship... it doesn't work."

"Having feelings doesn't mean you're unstable."

"I feel too deeply for my own good sometimes. The last thing anybody needs is for me to expose them to my inner pain."

"That's what friends do."

Sherlock remained unconvinced. Fixed gaze on the wall. Fingertips shifting against the cotton of John's duvet. John had forgotten how physically sensitive and easily over-stimulated the younger man was. In moments of emotional distress, he knew that Sherlock could feel each thread, each knot, each braid and particle and texture, like a microscopic image pressed against his palm. "At any rate. Your unhappiness, I have discovered, tends to make me unhappy as well. By trying to appease your feelings of inadequacy, I hoped to appease mine as well."

John raised an eyebrow incredulously. "You, inadequate?"

"Well, I've done some thinking, and I realize that it was perhaps not prudent on my part to leave in the manner that I did. I suppose my reflex was to push you away."

"Clearly. Listen," he said, interrupting before Sherlock could continue, "it doesn't matter. We can 'shouldn't have' ourselves to death, but what good does it do now? The past is the past."

Sherlock mulled this over, biting the inside of his cheek. After a long moment, he concurred, "That is correct."

"Thank you." John blew out a breath, adjusted so that he was facing his friend. "And thank you for coming over."

"Do you care to talk about... why?" This he said with an expression of utmost repulsion on his face, poorly masked by the least sincere smile John had ever seen in his life. Boffin. "Why you developed an interest in, you know. Why you are unhappy."

"I think it would only make you uncomfortable. I understand you're particularly sensitive to 'feelings' talk, and I wouldn't want to trigger another, er, response, like last time."

Sherlock looked as though he was bracing himself for battle, closing his eyes briefly and clenching his fists together. "You can do it. I can take it. We can talk. For you. Because." Disjointed, incomplete sentences: not a good sign.

John laughed lightly. Oh, Sherlock. So naive, so confused, so fixated on not coloring outside of the lines. What he had yet to learn, what John would teach him one day, was that life does not color inside the lines, that lines are hardly more than guidance, that color splashes everywhere and fills every nook and cranny, even – nay, especially – in the most unexpected places.

"So?" Sherlock was still gritting his teeth. "I want to help."

John leaned over and slid his fingers through Sherlock's, eliciting a small gasp. "You already are," he whispered, and tugged him closer so that he could plant a kiss on his forehead, then his flushed cheek. "Thank you."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "John, I."

"If you break my heart again I'm going to hit you."

"I wanted to answer your question from earlier. You asked what 'this' is. What we are. I still find the phrasing and nature of such an inquiry puzzling, but I do... care deeply. I, you know. What you do."

"You're an idiot."

Sherlock gazed at him. _I, you know. I love you._ Instead, he nodded and murmured, "I know," as John's lips met his. The kiss was tentative, more so than their first, as they each gauged each other's reactions. Sherlock's hand came up to cradle John's neck, stroking a thumb across the nape, the other rubbing across his back and wandering down his spine. John, for his part, shifted ever so slightly and gently, gradually, to the rhythm of alternating soft and desperate kisses, brought a leg over Sherlock's hips, straddling him. Sherlock nestled his arm at the small of John's back and, in one smooth movement, flipped them gracefully against the bed, lean frame curved protectively over his best friend's.

"The liver decomposed due to –"

"Oh, shut it," snapped Sherlock, and met John's mouth in one glorious, sweeping motion, holding his bottom lip tenderly between his own. His eyes, a brilliant hue between chrysolite and light olivine, caught John's in a breathless moment that seemed to last for ages.

"Thank you for coming back," John breathed, pressing a kiss against Sherlock's reddening mouth.

"I always will."

John pulled away, arms looped around Sherlock's neck. "Promise?" he asked, sounding very much like six-year-old, rope-climbing Sherlock.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked in a lopsided smile, a smile that John had only ever seen directed at him, and only in exceedingly rare moments of affection. "Next year, and the next, and the next, and even more," he repeated, cupping John's face in his hands.

"That's a lot of years." John let his eyes close, felt the breathtaking sensation of Sherlock's lips, warm and strong and yes, a hint of tongue running across his.

"It doesn't matter," said Sherlock huskily. He gazed into John's brown, questioning eyes. "I'll come every year." Another kiss, this one substantially less chaste than their first. He sighed into John's neck, brushing his lips across the stubble there. "I'll come every year."


	6. Georgina

_Author's note – _Oh man. This chapter got so freaking long that I split it into two. Special thanks to sherly-werly on tumblr for submitting the name "Georgina" as Mycroft's wife. Worked out quite well! Anyway, I hate to prolong the next chapter (OH GOD I'M SO EXCITED GUYS) but I will post it as soon as possible. For now, I really hope you like this. Thank you ever so much for reading and leaving comments, it really means so much and I love you all! (Of course, I would love you even more if you went and followed lostinsherlock on tumblr but that's neither here nor there :P)

**Sherlock - 25; John - 27**

"Brace yourself for Mycroft's children," said Sherlock, opening the door, "they're quite developmentally delayed and have taken a bizarre liking to me."

"Wonder what's wrong with them," said John. "Dunno why anybody would like you."

"Your sarcasm is hurtful, John, and I'll punish you for that later."

"Please do. I've booked us a hotel."

"Down boy," said Sherlock sternly; John smirked.

"UNCLE SHERLOCK!" cried a small boy, hurtling down the hallway and throwing himself at the man before he could so much as unbutton his coat. "You're finally here!"

Sherlock tried ineffectively to pry him off, giving John an uncomfortable smile. He patted the child awkwardly on the head. "Hello, Parker," he said warily.

Clinging about his midriff, Parker's face split into a beam as he gazed up at his uncle. "I lost a tooth, see," he said proudly.

"Oh. That's nice."

"Tell me something about teeth."

Snapping immediately into know-it-all mode, Sherlock began, "Teeth are calcified structures made of multiple tissues varying in density and hardness, and the cellular tissues that develop into teeth when you're born are from the embryonic germ layer. You lost that tooth because its tooth root began to dissolve, due to the erupting permanent tooth that'll come in to replace it."

"Whoa. Will my whole mouth fill with permanent teeth?"

"Yes, unless you get cavities, which are bacterial infections. They destroy the enamel, dentin, and cementum to demineralization, which causes holes in your teeth and inflated dental bills."

"Wow," said Parker, in awe, and turned to John. "He knows everything."

"Does he, though?" John said wryly. Sherlock scowled at him.

"Yes, of course, he's Uncle Sherlock." He gave an impish grin. "_Sherly_."

"No, that won't do," said Sherlock, idly swatting Parker away. "Go fetch us some tea."

With an adoring giggle, the seven-year-old scampered down the hallway and disappeared round the corner.

"Miserable little thing," Sherlock said bitterly.

"Sherlock Holmes, you _love_ children!" said John in amazement.

"_What? _No, of course not. Bloody kids. Meager excuses for the insipid adults they're inevitably going to be two decades from now, if you ask me."

John chuckled. "If you say so."

A second boy, this one shorter and more freckled than the other, darted past them. He did a double take, then came by and threw his arms around Sherlock, jumping up and down in excitement.

"Tell me again how you don't like kids?" muttered John.

"I'm... glad to see you," said Sherlock in a strangled sort of voice.

"Me too! Will you do my science project for me later?"

"You know the drill."

"Slip the assignment to you at dinner, don't tell my mum."

"You've got it." This earned a mock-disapproving look from John, who said,

"Hi, I don't believe we've met."

"Is this your boyfriend?" he asked, gawking and wide-eyed, then turned to Sherlock to say, "You've never brought a boy home for the holidays before."

Sherlock rocked back and forth on his heels, cleared his throat, and, as John watched in utmost amusement, conceded, "Yes. This is – er – my boyfriend. John _Hamish_ Watson." He flashed a devilish grin at John.

"You can call me John," said John, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.

"I'm Wyatt," said the little one. "I like your name."

"What, John?"

"No, Hamish. It sounds like ham to me. Can I call you _ham?_"

Sherlock spun the boy around with one hand, shoving him none too gently at the stairs. "That's enough. Get along, now."

Wyatt found this dismissal hysterically funny, dissolving into chortles on the bottom step. In a second he returned, imploring, "Will you give me a piggy-back ride?"

"The mere derivation of such a term is beyond my comprehension. Who, in the history of –"

John winked and nodded subtly to Wyatt, and before Sherlock could further his harangue, the five-year-old was clambering up his back.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" he asked, craning his neck to watch in distress as the boy proceeded to ruffle up his head of curls.

"You said a bad word. I won't tell Mummy if you give me a biscuit."

"I haven't got a biscuit on me."

"Well, what do you have?"

Sherlock glanced at John. "A detective's badge."

"Cor," breathed Wyatt as the silver object slid into his hands. "Who's Greg Lestrade?"

John kicked Sherlock in the shin. Eyes watering in pain, the latter said hurriedly, "Nobody important."

Greg Lestrade was an unfortunate DI with whom Sherlock suffered many difficulties. Ever since the 25-year-old started popping up at crime scenes unsolicited, and calling in tips that clinched cases that'd stumped the entire Scotland Yard for two and a half years, he and Lestrade had not gotten along particularly well (better than he did with Philip Anderson, however). The fact that he'd stolen his badge was not surprising in the least. John planned to have a stern discussion about things like stealing and law transgressions later. At the moment, though, Sherlock was being bombarded by yet another child, this one a lively girl with thick glasses and ringlets of white-blond hair. She was older than the others, and they took her orders with the terror of little brothers who knew from experience that any despicable act of disobeying their elder sister resulted unfailingly in severe pain.

"I missed you," she said, stepping away (thank god) to give him room to breathe. "Daddy's been excited."

"Oh, he has, has he?"

"I wasn't supposed to tell you, but he misses you. He's worried about you, actually," she said thoughtfully. "I heard him telling Mum."

"Worried?" Sherlock gave a loud, disdainful scoff.

"Yep. I've got to go help with the dessert now. Will you sit with me at dinner?"

"Er... yeah, alright."

"Yay! Wyatt and Parker will be livid. Give me a kiss?"

"Um, I'm not so sure –"

But she had already flung herself at him, face uplifted in expectation.

Slowly, as though it required an insurmountable degree of effort, Sherlock pecked her forehead.

"I love you!" she said happily.

"You too, Katie-cat." Sherlock froze, realizing what had just come out of his mouth. He cleared his throat. "Katherine, rather."

"You've called me Katie-cat since I was born. I like it," she said reassuringly.

"Katie!" yelled Parker. "Mum wants you!"

"I'll see you soon," she said, moving to leave. It dawned on her that an unknown man was also in the foyer, witnessing this interaction, and she paused. "Wait, who are you?"

John laughed. "I'm John."

"Are you married to Sherlock?" Katie asked matter-of-factly.

"No, but I _am_ dating him."

"Ooh, you looooove him," she sang.

"Go," said Sherlock, seizing her by the shoulder and dragging her down the corridor.

John eyed his boyfriend mirthfully when he returned. "Say nothing," snapped Sherlock. "One word and you're sleeping on the floor."

–––––

Georgina Holmes was, well, surprisingly delightful. Even Sherlock deigned to admit this; in his words, "Mycroft has, in nearly every area, exceedingly poor judgment. His choice in marriage, however, is mollifying. I have never fostered any desire to have siblings – Mycroft being sadly unavoidable – but as sister-in-laws go, I suppose she will do." This was a ringing endorsement that left John slightly speechless for the next minute, at which point he became inexplicably sad.

He could not quite put a finger on why, though he had an inkling. Watching the husband and wife whisper together, giggle at inside jokes, and exchange fond looks over the kitchen island, elicited involuntary twinges in his chest. Mycroft, generally as reserved as his brother, transformed in her mere presence: affectionate, loving, open, warm. They'd been together nearly ten years and still appeared smitten as a bloody teenage couple. Equal parts infuriating and so endearing it hurt.

Georgina effortlessly exposed a soft side in him that, strangely, a certain black-haired oddball did not complain about. This uncharacteristic restraint had, Sherlock adamantly told himself, absolutely _nothing_ to do with the parallels (to which even he was not blind) between their relationship and his with John. True, John seemed to bring out the worst type of softness, sometimes even sodding _romance_, out of him. Awful thing, really. Love was destructive; his brother and sister-in-law were living proof. One radiant smile from Georgina and Mycroft nearly dropped whatever he was holding.

Not to mention that she was exceptionally accepting of Sherlock's quirks, patiently enduring his tangents about eyeballs and forensic analysis and shushing the children when they tried to interrupt. And it didn't hurt that her cooking was delicious.

"What's the word on Siger?" she asked, passing out plates and snatching Parker's hand before it dipped into the mixing bowl. "You'll eat the real thing, don't fill up on dough," she scolded him.

"Uncle Sherlock would let me," Parker whined.

"Um, no, I would not," said Sherlock, as this seemed to be the desired response. Parker stormed off to bemoan his tragic fate. "My father couldn't make it," he informed Georgina in response to her previous question. "He fractured his hip climbing a ladder."

"I'm sorry to hear that!"

"My mum's here, though," he said, and his sister-in-law did not question how he'd known so far in advance.

Despite Siger's indisposition, Violet was as spry as ever as she arrived, stamping snow off her boots.

"You're just in time," said Georgina, pecking her cheek. "The boys will be overjoyed to see you. They keep asking about presents."

"Well, I'll have to appease them, then, won't I? Thank you, darling," she said, taking the proffered stuffed mushroom. "I'm ravenous."

"There's more where that came from." The oven beeped. "That'll be the casserole." She whisked off.

"Hi," said Sherlock politely. "How are you?"

"Get over here, Sherly," said Violet, then caught herself. "Sorry, I forgot that Johnny's the only one allowed."

"Yeah, sure," he muttered, though he returned her embrace enthusiastically. "I, er, missed – haven't seen you in awhile."

"That's not my fault, it's you who won't answer your mobile half the time. I've had to find out how you are from John, which is fine –"

"I haven't really said much," John, joining them, cut in hastily. "Just, you know, small tidbits here and there. Nothing in detail. Absolutely nothing you wouldn't want me to share. I'm totally, erm. I'm not." Sherlock's lips quirked in a thin, ominous smile. _You're digging yourself into a deeper and deeper hole here. _John blurted desperately, "I think we've heard enough, Violet –"

Violet beamed at him, oblivious to his panic, and chattered, "I quite enjoyed your email with the photo of Sherlock holding your neighbor's baby; that appalled expression was beyond hilarious. And the caption you put with it? Priceless. Babies don't break, you know, dear," she chided her son. "Not to mention that it's common knowledge to wear a towel when you're holding one, don't want baby vomit all over your best tuxedo, but it's too late now, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's quite sufficient," said Sherlock, leading her into the kitchen and tossing John a furious glare. This was not over.

–––––

"You said the kids are developmentally delayed," John whispered. "They seem fine to me."

"By my calculations they should have already been making rudimentary observations regarding –"

"Well, that explains everything." John poured gravy across his chicken.

"What do you mean?"

"By _your_ calculations, everyone's cognitively the equivalent of a three-year-old."

Sherlock frowned. "Mycroft is at least eight."

John bit down a laugh. "They seem very lovely. Everyone. And the children adore you."

"I would prefer not to discuss their bizarre sentiments towards me, when I have been nothing but myself towards them."

"That's why they like you, then."

"Pardon?"

"They like you for you."

"I'm not dumb, John. I know that my personality has certain repulsive qualities, such that very few people feel comfortable in my presence, and still fewer genuinely enjoy my company. Perhaps Mycroft has brainwashed them for a future April Fool's day prank." He hummed in thought, wiping a speck of mashed potato off the corner of his mouth.

The thought of Sherlock and his brother engaging in things as mundane as April Fool's struck John as enormously funny. Given their equally brilliant and often twisted minds, he could only imagine what a "prank" might entail. What a pity for Violet and Siger. "I think you might want to consider the possibility that kids see you for who you are: intelligent, open, unbiased."

"I _am_ biased. I know their father and have an unfortunate connection to him."

"You mean like how he's your brother? Family?"

"Please don't mention that again."

"You secretly love each other."

"We shall speak no more of this," said Sherlock airily. "What are your thoughts on the most recent case? The police radios were abuzz. Victim was split open and utterly dismembered." He pondered this for a moment before saying conversationally, "Ever so gruesome."

"God, Sherlock."

"Yes?"

John shook his head, choosing not to encourage his boyfriend, instead saying, "Come off it. This is Christmas dinner with the Holmes family, and it's lovely."

"Mm. Yes."

"Your bad attitude doesn't change the fact that you are, to everyone's surprise, skilled with children."

"Yes, I'm perfectly domestic, I'm sure," Sherlock drawled.

An image of Sherlock standing over a stove with a son on his hip came unbidden into John's head. Nope. That was not a thing that was going to happen. Anytime soon, at least. Was there a possibility? Wyatt hung off Sherlock's arm, tugging him towards the living room to play, and John couldn't help the rush of something just shy of longing that washed over him.

They settled around the fire, digesting before pudding, though the kids were already bouncing off the walls. Mycroft, arm wrapped snugly around Georgina, idly attempted to discipline them, quickly giving up and letting them run amok.

"They'll sleep well tonight," said their mother. "Parker, no." Parker clambered onto her lap, ignoring these protests, and curled his head into her shoulder.

"You made a wonderful dinner, darling," Mycroft said, planting a kiss on her head.

She threaded her fingers through his. "Thanks, love."

John coughed. "So," he said loudly. "D'you follow football?"

–––––

"Hello, John," said Mycroft, leaning against the balcony railing and taking a sip of his drink. "Have a seat."

"I'm good," said John, as the only available chairs were covered with a dusting of snow.

"Up to you."

"Alright." John crossed his arms. "What's this about? Sherlock?"

"My, you're a clever one. Yes, this conversation is indeed about my brother, and the nature of your relationship."

"Is this one of those if-you-hurt-him-I'll-hurt-you talks?" asked John, laughing nervously.

"Essentially." Mycroft paused. "John, Sherlock loves you very much."

His heart flip-flopped wildly at this pronouncement. "Really now."

"Oh, it's sickeningly obvious." Mycroft waved a hand dismissively. "Can't keep his eyes off of you."

"Really?" He should have known at this point, but Sherlock was so much less demonstrative than the typical person that even years later, he still had his doubts.

"You know that already, though."

John took a deep breath. Composure. Good. No point in fangirling as if he had no idea that the man with whom he'd slept with for a substantial length of time harbored feelings for him. "Erm, yes. Of course."

Mycroft cast him a skeptical glance. "Right. At any rate. I'll have you know that, frankly, I have a lot of power at my disposal. And should you break his heart for no good reason, I will be regrettably obligated to harm you."

"I don't plan on breaking his heart. If anything, mine's the liability."

Mycroft looked at him confusedly. "Sherlock doesn't break hearts. He mates for life."

_Mates? _"Um. Come again?"

"Sherlock is physically incapable of falling out of love. It's how he's built. He loves intensely and deeply and never stops. So, if he's truly in love with you, then you're screwed for the long run. He's already set to follow you to the ends of the earth, that much is clear."

"Wait." Shit. "Are you saying that he's still in love with everyone who he's fallen for before?"

"Romantic or otherwise, yes. He is the epitome of pure, unconditional love. Wanker," he threw in for good measure.

Shit shit shit shit. John was stupid. He really ought to stop convincing himself that he was special, irreplaceable, exceptional, in Sherlock's life. "Mycroft, do you know anything about... Molly?"

"Hooper? His first and only beard, you mean. He definitely never loved her."

"Oh."

"Don't be jealous, she's married to some tosser named Tom."

"Ah." When it came to the Holmes boys, it was often best not to ask how they acquired certain information if one did not wish to face a sizable moral conflict, generally involving the age-old debate over what classified as illegal and at what point it became their responsibility to alert the authorities.

"Speaking of jealousy, you really ought to stop ogling Georgie and me."

He flushed. "What?"

"Don't play dumb. I know you see us as this ideal couple, but we aren't. We're two imperfect people who love each other and refuse to give up. Moreover, you cannot go around comparing yourself to every other pair of lovebirds out there. Apples to oranges, and all that."

"I'm... you're just so _happy_ together," said John in frustration. "And sometimes I worry that..." He watched Sherlock through the glass door, sitting on the floor, knees drawn to his chest, the children clustered around him as he spoke. "I worry that I don't, you know. Make him happy."

"You're an idiot," said Mycroft crisply. "John, you're his Georgina."

"Pardon?"

He sighed, as if John was very, very slow. "You bring out in him what Georgie brings out in me. The tender side, the gentle side."

"Really?"

"Don't broken-record me. I'm not one for repetition." Both men fell silent for a moment, lost in thought; after a minute, Mycroft continued, "At any rate, this is getting off-topic. My point is, I want to make sure you understand who Sherlock is. How Sherlock is. That he is infinitely more fragile than he appears."

_He disliked emotion, not because he felt lightly, but because he felt deeply._ A quote, by John Buchan, which Sherlock read once on the back of a book and wrote down. When John found the paper and asked about it, Sherlock explained simply that it resounded with him, that the Canadian politician put into words what he could not. "I know," John said.

"I would have sabotaged you long ago had I not thought you fit for my brother."

"Comforting, thanks."

Mycroft gave a small smile. "I know I can be... unpleasant."

"So can Sherlock, but I still like him alright."

"I apologize for my, er, actions. In middle school. I was, you know. Kind of a dick."

"You can say that again." John held out a hand. "But hey, apology accepted. What's past is past."

After a long, scrutinizing look on the older man's part, they shook hands. "Now we'd better get inside," said Mycroft. "I heard something about angel delight, and I've always room for Georgie's dessert."

_Georgie._ They even had pet names. Goddamn lovebirds. Then again, there _was_ the whole "Sherly" business. So they were even, at least on that plane.

Not that he was feeling competitive, of course. Never that.


	7. Five Words

**Sherlock - 27, John - 29**

"What are you doing?" hissed John. "And why do we continually find ourselves in this position?"

They were hiding out underneath the porch of a condemned mansion, Sherlock gripping John's hand tightly.

"And is this dangerous?"

"Shh, he's coming." Sherlock paused, frowned. "Define 'dangerous.'"

"You're the worst."

"Please. You love me anyway."

"Dunno why," John muttered. "You could stop cutting off my circulation, though."

"Sorry." Sherlock loosened his hold, but kept his fingers snugly laced with John's.

"This is really romantic. Eighth anniversary, and all."

"Something came up," Sherlock said defensively.

"Just to clarify, by 'something came up,' you mean your snooping around finally paid off, and you just had to whisk me here instead of a romantic restaurant like normal people?"

Sherlock scowled at him. "This is important. Lestrade will be furious."

"You _could_ call the cops."

This earned him a withering look. He sighed. The suggestion was worth a shot.

"Or maybe, I dunno, _not_ make it a point to antagonize the Scotland Yard every chance you get?"

Another withering look. Why did he even try?

"Suppose the suspect never turns up?"

"Oh, he will. In approximately nineteen minutes."

"_Nineteen minutes?_ We're going to be here for another –"

Sherlock kissed him. That bastard. John hated him sometimes. Distracting as all get out. "Enough time for a snog, isn't it?" he said, flashing an impish grin.

They tumbled into the dirt, Sherlock surprisingly enthusiastic. The adrenaline, no doubt. John wasn't about to complain.

"I really have got something special planned," said Sherlock, peppering kisses along the line of John's jaw.

"I dunno, this is pretty special," said John sarcastically, running his tongue along the soft underside of Sherlock's lower lip and savoring the low moan this elicited.

"He might have a gun," admitted Sherlock, tilting his mouth, wet and warm, and locking it firmly against John's, a hint of teeth and tongue divulging his eagerness. John responded with gusto; Sherlock flipped him onto his back, one hand enmeshed in his hair, the other drifting down the inner seam of his jeans.

"I don't know why I love you." John groaned as Sherlock slid a hand between his legs. "God, Sherlock, we don't have time for that." The man was too beautiful to handle, sometimes. All chiseled features, and when he was like this, curls every which way, lips swollen and red, cheeks flushed, eyes dilated with desire... maybe they did have a little time.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered into his collarbone, latching onto the thin skin there and sucking. John squirmed; both of their trousers were getting uncomfortably tight. He felt Sherlock grope along his waistband and, not unexpectedly, couldn't muster up the strength to object.

A shot fired somewhere near the yard, and Sherlock jumped up immediately, dragging John with him and accidentally whacking him on the head in the process.

"There he is," he said avidly, as if they hadn't just been getting it off under an abandoned house, and slithered out of their hiding place to follow the convict.

More shots were fired – John blindly tried to jump in front of his boyfriend, but was ousted by a police officer who, it turned out, had been tipped off and waiting there as long as he and Sherlock had been. A short tussle later which involved Sherlock being punched in the face (John half wanted to thank the offender for dealing what was overdue at this point) and the man being swiftly handcuffed, Lestrade had arrived and was, predictably and justifiably, more than a little miffed. For the first few minutes he simply stood akimbo, dumbstruck, before marching over and managing, "You could have been seriously injured, Sherlock, what were you thinking?"

"It was fun while it lasted." Sherlock glanced at John, who pretended not to notice.

"You can't keep doing this, showing up at crime scenes with no known backup, putting your own life in danger, and I'm sure that if anything _were_ to happen you'd manage to twist my words on your deathbed just so I was to blame –"

"That's absurd, Lestrade, you do enough twisting of words yourself."

Lestrade shook his head, mouth agape. "Unbelievable," he said; then, "I'll write you up one of these days, mark my words."

"That's adorable," drawled Sherlock. "I'll be waiting."

"You are a complete dick," Lestrade said, and fumed off to interview witnesses.

"He's not wrong," said John, who was still panting slightly from the exertion of trying to save his boyfriend's hide. A gesture which, it ought to be noted, had still gone unacknowledged.

Sirens wailed. Sherlock was pinching the bridge of his nose as blood seeped into his dress shirt. "Yes, well, I don't try to deny it," he said, wincing as he inspected his various injuries.

"You almost got yourself killed," said John, instinctively applying pressure to the cut on Sherlock's arm.

His boyfriend grimaced. "Happy anniversary."

–––––

"I still don't understand why I'm stuck in a hotel." John emerged, newly outfitted in clean clothes. He wiped his face with a washcloth and waited for an answer.

Sherlock tossed a newspaper to the side and stood up. "I told you, the plumbing's still no good at the flat."

"Surely you've got a fix by now?"

"Shockingly, no. I've studied many things, but I can't say as the inner workings of a loo is particularly fascinating, or necessary given the amount of people who will toil over a clogged toilet for a relatively minimal price."

"So why are _you_ still staying there?"

"The rest of the place is perfectly functional, John. Plus, I spend enough time outside of the house that I don't have immediate need for an in-home bathroom."

"Are you saying that every time you need to take a piss you just mosey down to the nearest bookshop?"

Sherlock looked at him drily. "Irrelevant. Now, are you ready for dinner?"

"You mean you really made us a reservation?"

"Of course. I'm not dumb."

"Well, alright then."

"You look nice," said Sherlock, casually slipping his hand into John's as they walked down the street.

Compliments like these were rare gems in their relationship. So much so, in fact, that it bordered on suspicious. Perhaps Sherlock was just trying to make up for the horrendous start to their evening. "Thanks," said John, pecking him on the cheek.

"I wasn't lying to Lestrade. It _was_ fun while it lasted."

"There's more where that came from."

"You know, I assumed that to be the case." He subtly checked his reflection in a semi-opaque store window. Strange. Sherlock never seemed to care much about his looks, aside from being well-dressed. "I've come to the realization that I did not act prudently today," he added.

"You think?"

"John, please. I'm apologizing here."

"Sorry."

He stopped, taking both of John's hands in his, and gazed earnestly at him. "Just know that my involvement in that case was no reflection on my commitment to you, nor how much I appreciate our relationship. How much I love you. I know what an arrogant dickhead I can be, and it is somewhat my modus operandi to push through life without so much as a care how other people might be affected by my actions, but... I do have a care. For you."

An apology, an awkwardly phrased sentence. This did not bode well. "What do you have planned?" asked John cautiously.

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"You said you had something special planned, and now I'm a little worried it might have to do with a dead body or two."

"Why's that?"

"You're acting off."

"Am not."

"Sherlock."

"I'm not." Sherlock started walking faster.

"See, you're panic speed-walking." John sped up. "Come on, if something's wrong, I'd like you to tell me."

"Nothing's wrong."

"Slow down." John grabbed his boyfriend's elbow and spun him around, forcing him to meet his eye. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. Come on, we're almost there." He kept going, plowing through the streets like a man on a mission. Well, if his final destination was a slap in the face, he was doing a bloody brilliant job.

"You have to tell me. You aren't normally irascible, and when you are, it's never to do with me. This clearly is. Are you angry with me?"

"Here we are," said Sherlock loudly, and swept in, snatching two menus out of other patrons' hands and sliding smoothly into a booth table before John could even do a double-take. "I'll have some water, please," he informed a passing bus boy, who looked very alarmed and considerably frightened. Sherlock did appear a bit deranged sometimes. John watched in horror as he removed his precious overcoat and flung it carelessly over the chair back. Something was seriously wrong.

"What happened? What did I do?"

"What would you like to eat?"

"_Sherlock._"

"I'm quite partial to the –"

"SHERLOCK."

"Sorry. I forgot. What would you like to drink, first?"

"I don't give a shit."

"Those are hardly proper restaurant manners," he said mildly. "Water it is."

"You're being insufferable."

"And you are being over-reactive."

"You're sure about that, are you?"

"Yes."

"God." He let out a long, slow breath. "You are the most –"

"I know."

–––––

"John, leave me alone."

They got through dinner alright, given the fact that John was torn between punching the wall and investing in a bulletproof vest the entire time. He was still far from convinced that Sherlock's plan didn't include a shoot-out, decomposed corpse, and/or a healthy dose of homicide.

Now that they were back at his hotel room, however, he couldn't just let the matter rest. And so he brought it up again. Needles to say, it was not sitting well.

"I just want you to tell me what's going on."

"_Nothing._"

"That's obviously not true."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"No. I'm saying that you have something up your sleeve and I'd very much like to know what's got your knickers in a bunch before the fact, just in case it's something dangerous."

"You really don't trust my judgment, do you?"

"Um."

"That's highly insulting." He thought for a moment. "Also valid."

"Come on, Sherly. Look at the facts. You've quarantined me to a hotel room for absolutely no reason, you actually expressed _feelings_ to me, in addition to an apology, which I'd forgotten you were even _capable_ of –"

"What if I'm just feeling particularly... generous?"

"Oh, come off it. You looked like you were in pain just uttering that word. We both know 'generous' is not something anyone would ever associate with Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, I don't know, John!" Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, agitated. "What am I supposed to say here?"

"The truth! Tell me what this big thing is that you've got planned!"

"Or else what?"

His next five words fell out of his mouth in a stream of soon-to-be regrets. "Or else I'll marry you."

Sherlock's back stiffened. "No," he said, and turned away.

"For god's sake, it was a joke. Of course I don't expect you to – I mean, I'd like to –" John's stomach plummeted horribly when his boyfriend failed to look at him. "Sherlock? I'm sorry. I thought we were bantering."

"No, don't." His voice was low, pinched.

"Don't... marry you?"

Sherlock snatched up his coat. "I'll see you later," he muttered, and slammed the door.

–––––

There was a knock at 2 a.m., jolting John out of a fitful semi-sleep. He'd tossed and turned for the past four hours. If it was bloody housekeeping with the wrong room again, he swore to god he was going to punch them right in the face. Not bothering to pull on a dressing gown over his thin tee and worn boxers, he turned the knob and stifled a gasp.

"You didn't do it right," said Sherlock, the five words that would change John's life.

John stared at him for a full ten seconds, then said hotly, "I don't want to talk to you."

Sherlock pushed his way inside and perched on the edge of the couch. "You have to."

How was it possible to loathe someone with every fiber of his being, yet remain madly in love? This whole thing, life, relationships, people, Sherlock Holmes – everything was some sick set-up. And no, he was not being paranoid. "Excuse you. I can do whatever I'd like."

"Listen to me." Sherlock paused. "Please."

"No," said John flatly, though he couldn't help but notice the "please," a word which Sherlock had uttered probably less than fifteen times in his entire life. Add that to the list of anomalies today. What was next, tap-dancing? Popping out of a cake and doing the cancan?

"May we talk?"

John snorted derisively. "Oh, absolutely. But I forgot that this" – he drew a wild, all-encompassing circle with his hand – "is an eight-year relationship where jokes are not allowed and god fucking forbid I make any reference to the fact that we, you know, _love_ each other? Is marriage really that much of an abomination to you? Because I'm sorry, but I –"

"No, John. That wasn't it."

"THEN TELL ME WHAT IT WAS BEFORE I KICK YOU! You can't do this, you can't manipulate me, play with my feelings like I'm nineteen again. I won't have it. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone before, and if you don't feel the same, I'd like to know. Christ, I _deserve_ to know. You don't need to be harsh and unfeeling."

Sherlock was getting worked up now, palming the surface of the bedsheets. Hypersensitivity. Physical stimulation. Comfort. John felt, if possible, even worse, knowing that his distress only worsened Sherlock's. "_No,_" the 27-year-old said emphatically. "You didn't do it right."

John made a note of utmost frustration, rolled his eyes at the ceiling, rubbed a hand across his face, tried to breathe. "_What_ didn't I do right this time? Did I not say exactly what you wanted to hear me say, in your little Sherlock plan for life? Did I mess up my diagnosis of a kidney you nicked from the effing _morgue_? What did I do? I'm _begging_ you to tell me, because I honestly have no idea what I could have done to warrant this behavior." He paused, chest heaving, throat thick with emotion. This was not happening, could not be happening. "Well?" he demanded.

Sherlock got down on one knee.

"What the _fuck_ –"

A velvet box materialized in the younger man's trembling hands. "John Hamish Watson –"

"Leave out my middle name, you sod," said John, fighting back tears.

"Will you marry me?"

Sherlock looked earnest and boyish and nervous, like a tot at his first violin recital, as he waited breathlessly. As if there was any doubt, had ever been any doubt, that John wanted to spend the rest of his life with this odd, anal retentive, infuriatingly gorgeous man.

"Well?" He bit his lip nervously. "John, you'd better say yes, because I haven't fully researched the proper process if you were to say no."

John was experiencing such a vast cornucopia of emotions that he could not respond. In a painfully cliche way, he saw his life flash before his eyes, and for the first time had vague memories of their introduction, rough sand on his feet, the aloof baby. Sherlock's sixth birthday party, him in the sky, John on the ground, making promises they would always keep. Small offerings of friendship through elementary school, which he gave with no expectation of a return prize. High school: tumultuous. Two years older, rather more socially precocious... made things difficult, didn't it. College, when the most random things made him think of Sherlock; wool coats, a certain color of green, gray scarves, curly black hair. The fight, summer before the second year of uni, got drunk and nearly jumped off a roof. Their reunion. Everything leading back to this moment. And he would bet his bottom dollar that the plumbing at 221b was perfectly functional, that he would return to something special, perhaps a new bedroom or flowers or a human heart waiting on the kitchen counter (he honestly wouldn't be surprised). None of that even mattered. What mattered was where he was, who he was with, who he would always be with.

Sherlock dared not look at him now. Certain of rejection, his forefinger was disconsolately pushing the top of the box closed.

"No," John said quickly.

"I'm sorry, I understand that perhaps I misinterpreted your comment," said Sherlock, and his chin was trembling. "Also your feelings, evidently, and/or level of commitment."

"No!" cried John, seizing Sherlock's hands. "I meant yes!"

Sherlock took a moment to process this nonsensical chain of events; then his face lit up, as it had twenty years ago when the one boy he'd ever really cared about promised to come back every year. "Really?" he asked, tracing a finger gently along the edge of John's face, as if he didn't believe it. "Really really?"

John laughed, elated and unreal. "Yes, you dimwit," he said, and kissed him, both men pretending not to cry, their tears mingling against pounding pulses.

"Wait, here," said Sherlock, breaking away momentarily. He slipped a ring onto John's hand. "I promise I didn't steal this."

"I wouldn't care if you did," said John, gazing at the thin silver band in disbelief.

Sherlock pulled him into a strong embrace, John's head tucked against the spot where throat met chest, chin notched right above.

"I love you," John said blissfully.

"I stole the ring," said Sherlock. "It wasn't technically stealing, though. It was more of a negotiation in which I intentionally misled the second party and committed some negligible forgery and I mean, it wasn't explicitly _legal, _but I don't know as –"

"Fuck you," said John giddily. He'd deal with the repercussions later. Jail schmail.

And, in one of the only overtly flirtatious moments of his life, Sherlock gave a mischievous smirk and said, "Yes please."


	8. No Regrets

_Author's note – _Some fun domestic Johnlock. I'm wondering, though, if you would like another chapter in the same vein (they do have another child, a son) – or just keep going with the every five or so years thing – or if you're ready for an epilogue. Please leave a review and let me know! I'm quite attached to the story so I would love to extend it a little longer, but only if you lovely readers are on board.

**Sherlock - 34; John - 36**

"She's your daughter," John groaned, flipping onto his back and squeezing his eyes shut.

"She's _our_ daughter, John," said Sherlock firmly.

John's hand found Sherlock's in the dark of early, early morning, which might as well have been called Eleanor's Fuss Time. "She is, isn't she," he said, wonderment never ceasing. He pressed sleepy kisses to the back of his husband's knuckles.

"Indeed." Sherlock's voice rumbled from his chest, deep and gravelly and sleepy and buying for time, because he knew just exactly what level of huskiness made John go weak at the knees. Well, he wasn't going to get away with it this time.

"I let you pick her first name. I think that justifies me getting a lie-in until six."

Sherlock scoffed. "That's absurd."

"Is it though?" John yawned. "Go on."

Sherlock scowled.

"You're a big boy. You can change a diaper."

With a theatrical sigh, Sherlock slithered out from under the covers – careful, for all his frustration, not to pull them off of John – and padded down the hall to the nursery.

"Hello, Eleanor Alice," he said quietly. "You really must stop crying. You're keeping Papa and Daddy up, and any plans to charm him into giving you treats will prove futile if he's sleep-deprived."

She looked at him somberly, face red and tear stained. Dark curls spilled in an unruly halo around her visage, and for a baby her face was long, like Sherlock's. In disposition, however, she strongly resembled John. Simultaneously mule-headed and sensitive. Inquisitive, loving, open. She held her arms out – _hold me._ The first time she'd done it, Sherlock had been utterly flummoxed, and stood there for five minutes trying to deduce the meaning of such a gesture until John swooped in with an exasperated explanation.

"This is my least favorite part of parenting, you know," said Sherlock as he hoisted her into the changing table. She gazed reproachfully at him, grabbing his finger. "Don't give me that look." Wipe, roll, toss, tuck, fold. He was better at diapers than John.

Her eyelids were drooping by the time he'd buttoned up her onesie. When he moved to place her back in the crib, she started crying.

"Are you holding me hostage?" He sighed, eased the two of them into the rocking chair. "How is it that you infants all manipulate adults so effectively? Paedomorphosis can only do so much." She gave a miniature smirk, head nestled right over his heart. "Well. I guess being held hostage is acceptable, under these circumstances." Her weight was warm and solid in his arms. Happily, she was precisely on track with the growth charts that Sherlock constructed as soon as he'd hung up with Molly a year and a half ago, when their now long-time friend agreed to be the egg donor. She visited often, as did Violet and Carolyn and Mycroft and Georgina and so on. Nobody bothered hiding their shock that Sherlock made a competent father, including himself. John – Papa – was the heart; Sherlock – Dad – was the brains. Their style of parenting was unorthodox, but flowed so seamlessly that deviations didn't matter.

"You know I love you, right?" Sherlock whispered now, planting a kiss on Eleanor Alice's forehead. "Imagine all the oxytocin being released at this very moment. That's a hormone that promotes bonding," he explained. "You'll understand someday."

"Already teaching her science, are we?" said John from the doorway.

"It's a very important topic," said Sherlock defensively. "Anyway, I have this under control. You should go back to bed."

"I wasn't disputing that. And no, I couldn't resist joining my two favorite people in the world." John came over, settled down in the crook of Sherlock's other arm. "How is she?"

"Healthy, given the mess of which I just disposed in her diaper."

"Good to know."

"Mm."

Both men were silent, gazing at their daughter, this miracle of life. She was nine months old now, and every day was still a novelty.

"It's four a.m.," Sherlock finally murmured. "We'd better –" He caught his breath. John had fallen fast asleep against his shoulder, one hand sheltering Eleanor's tiny one, the other resting lightly on Sherlock's hip. Chest rising and falling, a comforting rhythm, long brown eyelashes delicate as they brushed over his cheeks. Sherlock dared not move a centimeter.

He too conked out at around five; his mobile, still on his nightstand three rooms away, was scheduled to go off in an hour. Golden, hopeful light streamed through the slatted curtain. John opened his eyes sleepily, yawned, and smiled tenderly at his husband. "Morning," he said. Sherlock drowsily leaned down to kiss John, then rested his cheek on John's tousled head.

Somehow they managed to stumble into the bedroom, taking Eleanor with them, and collapsed on the mattress, their daughter curled in the middle. A family at last.

_Oh, What a Night_ (Sherlock and John's wedding song) went off at 6:01 a.m., and, groaning in protest, both men got out of bed, John rocking a cranky Eleanor as Sherlock went to fetch her bottle.

"I'm going to be a zombie the rest of the day, just so you know," he said.

"Impossible. Zombies are entirely fictional. You know that. Here." Eleanor sucked on the bottle greedily.

"Well, I'm going to be sleep-walking."

"You're awake, so you're not technically sleep-walking."

"You're insufferable sometimes."

"I am, but you can't deny I make a very nice husband."

"And father," said John, brushing a finger tenderly over their daughter's plump cheek. "Ah, well. I've suffered worse."

"It was a nice start to the day."

"Absolutely." John shut his eyes and sighed in contentment as Sherlock's mouth met his, drawing out the kiss until Eleanor started fussing and they were forced to redirect their attention.

Sherlock yawned. "I'm really very tired. I miss the days when sleep was nonessential. Now I've found that it's become obnoxiously necessary. Perhaps staying up all night in that manner wasn't the best idea."

"No regrets, though," said John as they moseyed towards the kitchen. Sherlock's hair was messy, curls all out of alignment. John cherished these moments, before Sherlock put himself together for the rest of the world. This imperfectly perfect being was _his_, the bad breath and rumpled tees and stubble – all of it, his. As was little Eleanor Alice, alarmingly sharp fingernails and maddening tantrums included. Sherlock rubbed a hand through his tangled locks, which only achieved an even more hobo-esque look. John stifled a grin and eased his daughter into her high chair as Sherlock started up the stove and retrieved eggs from the fridge. "No regrets at all."


	9. Priorities

_Author's note – _Okay, short chapter. I was going to make it longer, flesh it out a bit, but I kind of like doing more drabble-y things, and thought this was sweet enough in itself. I have decided to continue writing, particularly as they now have two children and I'm interested to see how they grow up. I realized I rather adore kidlock, so I just put up a new, purely kidlock fic, _The Current State of Everything_ (for those of you requesting more kidlock). If you check it out and review/follow/favorite, I will love you forever, as I'm trying to get it a little more attention. Fics do seem to bury themselves on these sites sometimes! Anyways, I digress. I hope you like this chapter, and as usual let me know what you think :)

**Sherlock - 40; John - 42**

The house was on fire, and John was livid.

Well, at this point, the firemen had already put it out. It wasn't enough to warrant a move, but certainly more damaging than a small kitchen fire.

"Not my fault," Sherlock said.

"You are a di –" John glanced at Eleanor, who was clutching her teddy bear and staring, transfixed, at the jumbled red mess cluttering the street. Fire engines, firefighters, alarms wailing. "We'll discuss this later," he hissed.

"The bum burner didn't work," Eleanor piped up.

"The _what?"_

"Sh, Ellie, Papa doesn't need to know." Sherlock tried to steer her aside. "Let's go look at the –"

"No, you're staying right here, sweetie." John knelt down to her eye level. "Repeat what you said about the burner?"

Confused, she stammered, "The bum burner. It was old, Daddy said. He said we could try it, but we didn't –"

"_What?_" John rounded on Sherlock. "What's she talking about?"

"Um." Sherlock shuffled his feet.

"You're a forty-year-old man. You can answer a simple question."

"Daddy?" Eleanor looked imploringly at Sherlock. "Did I say the wrong thing?"

"No, you said exactly the right thing," John said, still glaring at his husband.

"So, it would seem that the Bunsen burner I dug out of the storage unit had been there for quite some time, possibly since we were Eleanor's age, and, er... it didn't particularly occur to me to check before I lit it up."

John was rendered speechless, opening and closing his mouth like a gasping fish.

"It was educational, right?" Sherlock was digging himself into a deeper and deeper hole at this point, and they both knew it. Eleanor Alice's brow had furrowed, maddeningly like Sherlock's default expression, and John suppressed the urge to punch his husband.

"I don't – I can't – why in the world would you _ever_ think that it would be a good idea – don't you know – flames and six-year-olds don't mix, you ought to –"

"I mixed quite well with flames at her age," Sherlock interjected. "In fact, I had the procedure for putting out fires memorized by my seventh birthday."

"Oh, fabulous, so she's right on track," snarled John.

"I forgot to teach her the technique. Also the location of the fire extinguisher might have been useful knowledge."

"_Sherlock._"

"I'll speak to Mycroft. I can guarantee insurance will have a little change of heart when it comes to finances by the time I've made arrangements."

"Just... _no._"

He looked at him incredulously. "So you _want_ to pay full price?"

"Sherlock! Thank god!" called Molly, arriving right in time to halt John's tirade before it could begin. She jumped out of the car, scooped Eleanor up in her arms with a "hi, Ellie-bear," and said breathlessly, "Is the house going to be okay?"

"Yes, but our marriage may not be," John said through gritted teeth.

"Come now. That's a little extreme." Sherlock rolled his eyes at Eleanor, who giggled.

Molly pressed a kiss to her god-daughter's temple. "What happened?"

"Oh, you didn't hear?" John jumped in. "The _bum_ burner that Sherlock showed our _six-year-old daughter_ happened to catch fire, taking the entire kitchen and dining room with it."

Molly raised her eyebrows. "Bum burner?"

Sherlock sighed. "Bunsen burner. She had some difficulty with pronunciation."

"Ah. Right. That'll be funny in a couple years. Tom's in the car with Alec, the daycare said he did splendidly."

Alexander Scott was eighteen months now. He had John's hair in texture; the actual hue fell somewhere between Sherlock's black and John's light brown. So far, he'd proven to be quite intelligent, hard to entertain, and barely ever cried. Eleanor adored him, her face lighting up at the mere mention.

"That's my boy," said John, involuntarily softening at the mention of his son. "Thank god he wasn't in the house." This he shot at Sherlock, who retorted,

"I would've gotten him. It wasn't like a bomb went off. There was time to salvage things."

"Speaking of, what's the damage?" Molly asked.

"I'm sure he saved all his precious lab equipment," said John savagely. "Possibly a few livers, maybe an eyeball or two."

Sherlock looked a little hurt. "No, actually, I let those all burn. They're replaceable. I –"

"That's excellent. What was it then? Your laptop? And we can't forget your bloody violin –"

"I like my violin," Sherlock said quietly. "And no. For your information, I made no attempts to save my violin. The fire didn't quite reach it, but it did singe the body. I don't think it can be repaired at this point."

John couldn't mask his surprise at this insight. "What?"

"In addition to all the research papers I'd worked hard to preserve. Completely charred."

"Your laptop?"

"Safe, in the office."

"Then what did you save?"

Sherlock silently reached into his back pocket and slid out a handful of photographs. "The most important things. Our children, and you."

John took the pictures and caught his breath. "I didn't know you kept these."

"Every single one," Sherlock whispered.

John couldn't speak. He flipped through them wordlessly.

_One_. The day after Christmas; Sherlock was one, he was three. Both bundled up in snowsuits that bore strong resemblances to marshmallows. They stood at the same level, waist-high in snow. Mycroft was poised in the background, a snowball packed into his mittened hand. John and Sherlock were gazing at each other, mid-laugh. Snow flecked their matching knit hats, puffs of breath mingling. A perfect winter image, frozen in time.

_Two._ Sherlock's sixth birthday. John, smiling, cross-legged and pointing at the little dirt drawing he'd made for Sherlock all those years ago. Sherlock, standing, arms crossed. Head tilted slightly away from the camera – tilted towards John_._ Eyes bright and soft and warm, looking at his best friend, even as the slope of his neck and angles of his elbows were hard and pointy.

_Three. _Sherlock, ten. John, twelve. They were in the Watsons' living room, deep in conversation. Leaning towards each other, foreheads brushing, poring over a science magazine Carolyn had shown them. Young, innocent, free. Totally oblivious to the camera. John was gazing up at Sherlock; Sherlock murmured something, looking down at the fine print.

_Four. _Fifteen and seventeen. Sherlock dwarfed John by now. They were on their way back to the living room, bearing apples and graham crackers, and were caught off guard. John, always the photogenic one, had his hand cupping Sherlock's shoulder, while Sherlock remained in thought. His lips were pursed, brow wrinkled, and nothing could mask the bare adoration in John's smile, or the way Sherlock leaned slightly into his best friend's touch. They would kiss a week later.

_Five. _The day that John left for uni. This one was taken from behind, a little grainy, and snapped without either man's knowledge. They were crossing the town green, John wearing his graduation cap. Though the rest of their outfits were blurry, their hands were well focused: fingers intertwined, elbows overlapping, arms making as much mutual contact as was humanly possible. Sherlock's slender thumb brushed across the back of John's hand, a move that still gave the older man goosebumps.

_Six. _Christmas at Mycroft's. Wyatt, Parker, and Katie were literally climbing on Sherlock; Mycroft and Georgina talked quietly in the corner, looking as enamored as ever; John was sitting to the side, casting Sherlock an embarrassingly besotted stare.

_Seven._ Meeting Eleanor Alice for the first time. In the nursery, Sherlock holding both husband and child, arms wrapped around John's waist, chin notched above his shoulder, hands gently steadying his from beneath the tiny bundle.

_Eight. _Family trip to the beach, six months ago. They were tucked beneath a massive umbrella. Eleanor had nicked Violet's large floppy sun hat; it covered half her face in the photograph. Alec, propped up in her lap, solemnly scrutinized the hot sand burying his surroundings. John was mid-sentence, mouth half-open and filled with ham sandwich; Sherlock grimaced at the camera, seemingly uncomfortable, though the casualness with which he slung an arm around his husband, cheek nestled in John's hair, would say differently.

_Nine. _Sherlock and John. Taken last Sunday. They'd been visiting Lestrade and his new wife, Caroline, and had a rare moment alone when their friends volunteered to entertain the kids. Unbeknownst to the two men, a camera had somehow entered the equation. Rude. At any rate, John and Sherlock were walking down a small path leading to the woods together. Their heads inclined towards each other, reminiscent of the third photo, and Sherlock's hand was tenderly cupping John's neck, the promise of a kiss blatantly evident in the intensity of the men's shared gaze and John's fingers pressing against the sides of Sherlock's arms. An unbelievably sacred moment, the two of them framed by trees and shadows, Sherlock's silhouette wrapped protectively around his hisband's, so close yet never close enough. All-encompassing love.

When John looked up, Molly had gone, taking Eleanor with her. The firefighters had left a stack of paperwork and phone number to call. None of that mattered.

"You saved these." John definitely wasn't getting teary-eyed.

"I don't see why I wouldn't have. I've begun collecting them since the day we got back together. Well, I had the second one, the birthday one, after we broke up. Might have kept it in my room under my pillow, once or twice."

John gave a watery chuckle, sniffled. "I didn't think..."

"You thought that memories of us, that the photographic evidence of everything that we have been through and everything that we are, would pale in comparison to the importance, or lack thereof, of materialistic items such as a beaker or musical instrument? I assure you that this is not the case. You are, and will forever be, my number one priority."

"Sherlock, I..."

"If you were burning in a bloody bonfire and I was twenty minutes away, I swear to god I would save you. I would hijack a cop's motorbike and break every traffic law in the entire fucking world if necessary."

John grasped for words that he could not find. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's still your fault, but I shouldn't have accused you of not caring."

"It's alright." Sherlock sighed. "It's really only the kitchen area that..." John was moving towards him, hand drifting slowly up his chest. "That got damaged. It's, er..." He forgot what he was saying, and gave up when John's other hand slid round his hip. "I love you."

"I love you too, but if someone takes a picture of this, you're sleeping on the floor."

"John." Sherlock frowned, pulling away. "Exhilarating as getting off in the middle of a street after nearly burning down our house is, I can't say as it's terrifically ideal."

"We'll get a five star hotel somewhere," John said dismissively.

"How? We don't have the money, not on hand, at least."

"We'll just ask Mycroft."

"Oh ho," Sherlock said triumphantly. "Finally getting used to life with the Holmes boys on hand?" His eyes twinkled with uncharacteristic mirthfulness.

"Shut up and kiss me, you sod," said John, and Sherlock did.


	10. You're Still the One

_Author's note – _Well. The end.

This was such a lovely, delightful story to write, and I really hope you all enjoyed it. My goal in writing is to create a story that people will want to come back to and continue reading, even after it's over, and I hope I've achieved that, if only with a handful of readers!

Thank you so much for the reviews, follows, and favorites, they all mean so much to me. And don't forget to check out my other works on here!

_Epilogue_

**Sherlock – 80; John – 82**

_looks like we made it / look how far we've come, my baby_

_we mighta took the long way / we knew we'd get there someday _

"John."

John groaned and turned to face his husband. "Yes."

Sherlock's lips were pursed in thought, hands clasped on his chest. "I've been thinking."

"Mm."

"We've been together for a very long time."

John really, really wanted to sleep. "We have."

"You know... I used to wish I could go back in time and redo our entire relationship. Theoretically, of course. Time travel remains a frustratingly elusive concept."

"Why'd you want that?" John mumbled, burying his face in the pillow.

"Because if I'd told you I loved you sooner, perhaps things would have been better."

Good lord, it was four in the morning. "Can we save the introspective talk for later?"

Sherlock frowned. "No, Ellie and Alec are coming by at nine."

"Christ, are they going to lecture us about nursing homes again?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I will ensure that they do not bring up your limp again."

"Thanks. Sensitive topic."

Sherlock's eyes softened; he ran a finger over John's arm and pulled up the covers, settling back onto the mattress. "It's almost gone, though."

John nodded sleepily. "You were right about it being psychosomatic. As always. Bloody know-it-all."

"I take that as a compliment."

John was nearly asleep when his sodding husband felt compelled to resume the conversation.

"John?"

He was retired, for god's sake.

"I know you're awake," Sherlock said sternly. "If you think I'm not acutely attuned to your breathing patterns at this point, then you are severely misguided."

Ah, shit. "What?"

"I just... I'm sorry."

John straightened up. An apology? "Oh no, the dementia's setting in. Ellie warned me about this." Sherlock glowered at him. "Fine. What are you sorry for?"

"For taking the long way. I made things a great deal more difficult for you than they should have been."

"Are you blaming yourself for something that happened between us sixty years ago? Sherlock, you've done everything right."

"Well, that's not true."

John hesitated, then chose his words carefully. "Some of the mistakes were worth it. Necessary. Things wouldn't be where they are today if anything had been different."

Sherlock contemplated this for a minute. "But –"

John pulled him closer and planted a kiss in his salt-and-pepper curls. Unlike John, Sherlock had barely gone gray. "We made it. That's what matters."

Sherlock ducked his head shyly into his husband's neck. "Did you think it would happen, back then?"

"Of course. Always knew we'd get there, someday."

"Really? I'm afraid I am skeptical of such a pronouncement."

"I'm not. What have I told you about not putting words in my mouth?"

"Don't put words in your mouth?"

"Exactly." John paused. "Look how far we've come."

"We've barely moved."

John flashed back to that conversation with Sherlock in primary school, the ten-year-old taking his every word so very literally. "You know what I mean."

"I do." Sherlock found John's hand and squeezed it. "We were very foolish sometimes, weren't we?"

"Yeah." John grinned. "We were."

They lapsed into silence again, and John was just dozing off –

"Did you know?"

Ugh. "Know what?"

"That I loved you."

"When?"

"From the very first day." He yawned.

John didn't know what to say. His brain was too muddled to process intense emotion right now. "Um."

Sherlock concluded matter-of-factly, "I wouldn't want it any other way."

And promptly fell asleep.

_you're still the one I run to / the one that I belong to_

_you're still the one I want for life_

The airport was crowded with sleep-deprived travelers jostling against one another and shouting into their mobiles. Ellie tried to push John's cane into his hand; he waved her off, focused only on scanning the terminal for his husband.

"He was gone barely five days, Papa," she said soothingly. "That's less than a week."

"I missed him," John snapped. Old age was proving to be an excellent excuse for rudeness.

"I'm worried about your limp," she confessed. "I know Dad thinks –"

"There he is," John interrupted and, spontaneously limp-free, he ran, uninhibited, into Sherlock's arms.

Ellie's protest caught in her throat at the sight of the two men embracing.

Growing up, she'd never been embarrassed about having two fathers. On the contrary, she believed that if anybody's family structure left much to be desired, it was her friends, whose parents adopted attitudes bordering on indifference towards each other. Secondary school was when she realized how few couples were as demonstrative as John and Sherlock. Their blatantly doting relationship had shrouded her in a security blanket from infanthood; the way Sherlock's eyes caught John's across the dinner table was, in Ellie's mind, the definition of love in its purest form.

Watching John run to Sherlock, knowing that Sherlock belonged to John, that John was all Sherlock would ever want for the rest of his life – and vice versa – was deeply moving.

She definitely wasn't tearing up, though.

Her parents hugged for a long time, Sherlock's hand cupping John's neck, and heads turned towards them. A teenage girl whispered to her friend, "I want someone to look at me like that." Another elderly couple hovering by the carousel exchanged fond smiles: they knew what it was like.

After nearly four minutes, Sherlock and John returned to Eleanor. She kissed Sherlock on the cheek, taking his bag for him, and asked how Lestrade was doing.

"Honestly, I am unable to tell at this point if his moronic comments are a by-product of aging or not. I don't recall whether he was this daft when we were younger."

John rolled his eyes. "Everyone was daft according to you when we were younger."

"Either way, he is still very much alive. The knee surgery was difficult on him, understandably, but the rehabilitation facilities are competent. And no, Eleanor, before you use that comment to justify harassing us again, John and I have no interest in 'exploring the possibility' of assisted living," he said.

"Fine," she said, sighing. It was a losing battle.

In the cab, she was squished up against the door as her fathers squeezed in next to her, bickering about this and that. John had been difficult, irritable, and paranoid in his husband's absence; it was a relief to have Sherlock back.

"How have you been, Eleanor?" he finally thought to inquire.

"Fine," she said. "Sydney's doing splendidly." Seventeen-year-old Sydney was a bubbly, somewhat rebellious teen. Sherlock and John were attentive grandparents, sometimes to a fault; once, Sherlock sided with and helped present an argument for Sydney when she petitioned to quit dancing. Eleanor was not altogether pleased, and had zero appreciation for the fact that he'd gone so far as to reach out to questionable legal contacts in order to affirm a strong foundation on which to devise his side of the debate.

"How is biology going for her?"

Eleanor grimaced. "Not so hot. She's trying."

"I shall have a talk with her," Sherlock said briskly. "I guarantee she will grasp the material by the end of our meeting."

"God, Dad. Please, I beg of you, do _not_ pull out the bum burner." John snickered beside her.

"So unnecessary," said Sherlock coolly. "The tutoring session will not involve fire."

"And the eyeballs that've been molding in the back of the fridge for the past six months?" John put in with a mirthful grin, which accentuated crows feet at the corners of his eyes.

"No comment," was Sherlock's response. Not reassuring. Not at all. Then, "I will admit that I have found, ah, _hands on_ experience to be a little more effective in the ways of education. Part of it may result from the emotional trauma invariably undergone by girls who would prefer not to poke at rotting human hearts, but my research results on the matter are inconclusive thus far."

Ellie smothered a smile. Everything was back to normal.

_you're still the one that I love / the only one I dream of_

_you're still the one I kiss goodnight _

"Why are we having this party again?"

"It's not a party, Alec," Eleanor said patiently, walking by Sydney and muttering, "Quit tumblr and do your work." She straightened up the couch cushions.

"So we're having an impromptu family dinner? I'm not judging, I was just confused as to the abrupt nature of such a proposition."

She groaned and switched the phone to her other ear. "Can you put Payton on?" While the handover played out on the other side, she shook her head at her daughter. "If you're looking for a detailed diagram of mitosis, it's not going to be on twitter. Come on, hon. Do your work."

"I am!"

Eleanor cocked an eyebrow, a very Sherlock-esque mannerism. Her daughter noted this, saying critically,

"You look like Granddad when you do that."

"I'll let Granddad give you a biology crash course if you don't stop reblogging photos of shirtless boys."

Sydney grimaced. "Okay, fine. Have you seen my textbook?"

The phone crackled as Eleanor pointed to the dining room table. "Elle?"

"Hey, Payton!"

"Hi!" Payton and Alec had been married for twenty years now. Their eldest daughter, Julia, was a first year in uni; sixteen-year-old Anna was currently attending a posh performing arts boarding school. "What's going on?"

"I was just thinking, since John and Sherlock just reunited – after five _whole_ days apart – that it might be fun to have a little family dinner."

"You're trying to get Syd off the computer, aren't you?" said Payton shrewdly.

"Little bit, yeah," she allowed. "Also, I haven't seen you in way too long."

"That's fair. Sure."

"Six o'clock at 221b sound good?"

"Indeed. Who's cooking?"

"I was thinking Chinese takeaway? Don't judge me."

Payton laughed. "I'll put together a casserole. Julia's just gotten back, actually, so I'll assign her pudding duty. Sound good?"

"Yes, thank you," she said in relief. "You can hit Alec for me if you'd like."

"I'll gladly take the opportunity. My husband can be a bit... well, a bit like Sherlock, sometimes."

"I suppose it stands to reason."

"Yeah, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I have to run, but text me if you need anything?"

"Alright." They hung up.

"Mum?" Sydney sounded legitimately frightened. "If I can't pass biology, can you get me a tutor?"

Eleanor resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow. Sydney. Asking for help. Asking for a _tutor._ "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine, I just... I just _really_ don't want Granddad to make me look at baggies of decomposing wisdom teeth again."

Ellie sat down next to her and pecked her cheek. "Yeah, don't worry. I'll find you a tutor."

—

"We're here!" called Payton, flicking the light switch. She was pale, with brown hair and blue eyes. Plain in appearance, but extremely intelligent. Sherlock had heartily approved from the day Alec bashfully brought her home.

"Granddad? Pop?" said Julia, balancing a tray of homemade pastries and a carton of ice cream in her arms.

Alec, Eleanor, and Sydney joined her on the front stoop. "Do you have the key?" Alec asked of his sister.

"Yeah, hold on. Syd, can you reach my purse?" Sydney located the object in question and unlocked the door.

"We brought food!" Ellie announced.

Sherlock and John had their heads bowed over a newspaper clipping, laughing at something; the latter got to his feet when his family walked in. "Oh, thanks," he said, relieving Payton of the casserole. "I'll heat this up."

"Excellent." Eleanor discarded her jacket and hung it on the coat rack.

"What are you looking at?" Sydney inquired, peering at Sherlock.

"John and I managed to dig up some old remnants of our friendship. Look," he tapped the clipping, "This was when I won a science contest in year four. Everyone thought I was a freak because I performed a live, highly professional fetal pig dissection. John and Molly were the only ones who didn't share this opinion."

Julia came and stood next to them at the table. "Hi, Granddad."

Sherlock looked at her in surprise. "You're supposed to be at uni."

She shrugged. "Holiday."

"Ah." A pleasant smile. "Welcome home."

"Thanks. What are these?"

He glanced over to the kitchen, where his children were chatting animatedly with their father, then back at the stack of photos in his hand. "Pop will remember."

Intrigued, Sydney pulled up a chair and gestured for Julia to do the same. "There's a story," she said eagerly. "Tell us."

Sherlock recounted the tale of the bum burner as the casserole heated up in the oven. His granddaughters were delighted.

After they were full and lounging lazily around the apartment, making small talk with the telly chattering away in the background, John wordlessly went to the bookcase and retrieved a photo album none of them had seen before. Sherlock's surprised expression made it clear that he hadn't been aware of its existence either.

"This is for you," John explained. "While you were busy throwing fits about alleged ageism in the Scotland Yard, I learned how to scrapbook. You can thank YouTube for that."

Sherlock snickered, then leaned over and kissed him. "Idiot," he said fondly.

"Are we in it?" asked Sydney eagerly.

John nodded. "Everyone is. Payton, Alec, Ellie, Molly, even a bit of Lestrade, just to spite Sherlock. Here." He handed it to his husband, who ran a finger across the embossed cover. _Through the Years _was printed in fancy cursive lettering on the front, accompanied by the photograph of the two of them in the snow nearly eighty years ago. Inside were letters, articles, sloppy Valentine's Day cards, ticket stubs, all pasted to thick pages, of which there were many.

There was Eleanor Alice's birth certificate, then Alexander's, then a multitude of school pictures and first dates and prom and finally Payton began littering the book: holiday parties, Halloween outings, culminating in a wedding photo. A xerox of Violet's last will and testament, in which she distributed all her property equally and begged her sons not to quarrel over it. Mycroft's obituary – he'd passed away two years ago – and the family portrait taken directly before his death. His arm around Georgina, Wyatt and Katie and Parker's children clambering on his lap. Sydney, Julia, and Anna at amusement parks, brandishing balloons, unwrapping birthday gifts.

"You really covered all the bases, Papa," said Eleanor. "It's beautiful."

He squeezed her hand, then turned to his husband. "Sherlock?"

"It's... I don't know how to express the... thank you," said Sherlock. "Thank you." He shook his head. "I never..."

"I didn't want you to forget," John said quietly. "I know you've been worried lately, that maybe you shouldn't have taken the long way, but these" – he gestured to the scrapbook – "are all the reasons why you should have."

Sherlock swallowed hard. "Thank you," he repeated.

That night, after a lovely evening spent catching up with Julia about her new maths courses and trying to explain biology to a very resistant Sydney and watching a DVD of Anna's most recent concert, Sherlock wrapped himself around John, a beautifully familiar weight.

"Still the one," he whispered, running his fingers through John's silvery-white hair.

John nodded, breathing in his husband's warm scent, the tip of his nose nestled in the base of Sherlock's throat. "I know," he said, and kissed him goodnight.

_when I first saw you, I saw love_

**Sherlock – 1, John – 3**

"Did you have fun, Johnny?" Carolyn asked that evening, peering at her son through the rearview mirror. He nodded, a grin splitting his face.

"I like him," he said.

Carolyn had been referring to play group and their subsequent visit to John and Harry's grandmother, who treated John with biscuits and toy cars. Confused, she said, "Who?"

"Sherly," he replied.

She'd almost forgotten their encounter in the park. Odd that he'd recall that morning, as opposed to an afternoon of pudding and sweets. "And what about Grandma?"

"She was good too."

Carolyn smiled. "Good."

He fidgeted a little in his oversized car seat, plucking at the harness.

"Careful, sweetie," she cautioned. When he got restless it meant he had something important to say. "What is it?"

"Mummy?"

"Yes, love?"

"Can I see him again?"

"Sherlock?" She'd never seen a baby make her son so happy.

"Yeah."

Holmes. Violet Holmes was his mother's name. Easy to find in a phone book. "Alright. I'll call his mum tomorrow."

John leaned forward, craning his neck to see her face over the headrest. Assessing whether or not she was telling the truth. "Promise?" he asked.

She turned her head and kissed his round cheek. "Promise."

_you're still the one..._


End file.
